He Does Write
by polkaking2
Summary: PreDH,PostHBP AU. HG HrR GabrielleD. Various POV. Read and review. Chap 30 - Nearly As Bad As Possible - The fight for the Cup continues. George and Soleil bond, Wormtail makes his stand, and Poisseux...
1. A Second First Wand

This is a sequel story to 'G is for Gabrielle'.  
Also, it will either be obvious as to what language is being spoken, or it can be assumed to be French.  
Finally, the French school system counts classes down from six, to the terminale.

v - v - v - v - v

Chapter One - A Second First Wand

Eleven months earlier, in August.

Gabrielle Delacour watched the flames flicker feebly in the hearth. There was quite a lot of flame, which was as she had hoped. They were just not very hot. The scraps of parchment she was feeding the failing magical fire would hardly even darken. She had not done something correctly, but it was too late to try yet again. Her Maman had already called twice, and her mother would not have much patience today since Grandmere would be coming along.

Gabrielle tied the short, blond wand back onto the thin cord around her neck, and slipped it into her blouse. Then she thought better of it, and put both into her handbag. The handbag, with its magically sealed liner that only she could open, was a gift from George Weasley. Gabrielle knew the purpose of the trip today was to get her official first wand. Maman and Grandmere would not be happy to learn that she already had one, which was the one she had taken from Fred Weasley. It had been difficult to hide it from her parents and practice what few spells she had learned, but not as difficult as it would have been without the apron from Mrs. Weasley. That had to have some kind of charm on it, which is why Maman had mostly not noticed her earlier when she had checked this room. Mostly not noticed, because her mother had handed Gabrielle a duster and waved vaguely at the mantle before leaving.

Gabrielle kept the apron on as she made her way down the wide hall to the parlor. The parlor was the place for formally entertaining important guests, and Grandmere. Maman was just ahead of her, moving in that crisp way she had that meant her patience was already quite thin. After her mother entered, Gabrielle paused at the door to peek in and listen. It was good to know exactly how thin.

"We are ready?" asked Gabrielle's grandmother regally. She sat next to the hearth in the chair Papa would use, and wore a simple black frock brought tight at the waist with a belt. It was unfair, thought Gabrielle, that Maman's far more elegant garb paled in comparison.

"Did you happen to notice a Postal owl?" asked Maman. "She appears to be hiding again."

"Our little bug, always looking for a dark crevice," sighed Grandmere. Gabrielle thought, excuse me? Crevice? "Does that mean her suitor still writes?"

"He does write," said Maman. Then she chuckled, "But suitor? I think not. Unless the correspondence is in some sort of code." Gabrielle's jaw dropped. Maman had read George's letters? How had she found them? It seemed that everything would have to go into the handbag. All the things Maman did not like were in it already. Apparently George fell into that category. Gabrielle did not like the idea all that much, since it was easy to lose a handbag but very hard to lose a house.

"A tiresome behavior if they are. I have always preferred a man of action in any case. I find scars intriguing."

"Yes. Your behavior at the wedding was -"

"That is tiresome as well," interrupted Grandmere.

"I see. Is it tiresome then that a werewolf attacked Gabrielle?" demanded Maman.

"Don't be a silly girl," replied Grandmere sharply. Listening in, Gabrielle had to wonder why Maman did not show more sympathy for her with regard to Fleur. After a moment, Grandmere continued wistfully, "I should have liked to meet that Harry Potter though..."

"I have had enough of this - I shall get my wand. Perhaps it is puberty that is making her so withdrawn," said Maman, who had given up on her mother.

Gabrielle quickly undid the apron and crammed it into the handbag. It was best to show up before Maman was holding a wand. Gabrielle slipped into the room. "Eh, hello Grandmere," said Gabrielle. "How are you?"

"I am well, dear. Thank you. We have been waiting for you."

"I am, eh, sorry, of course. I was, eh..." Gabrielle tried to think of an excuse.

"Was there another letter from your young man?"

"No. I was, eh, just -"

"He does not write you everyday?" Gabrielle's grandmother managed both surprise and disappointment with the lift of an eyebrow.

"It is an International Post," explained Gabrielle defensively. She felt her face heat up. George did not write everyday; Gabrielle felt that would silly. But, thought Gabrielle, he does write. A little more often would be nice, though.

"Hmm."

"Gabrielle - there you are. It is about time you showed up. You know we have an appointment," said Madame Delacour as she reentered the parlor. Gabrielle had never been glad to see her Maman with her wand before, but she did not want to discuss the letters anymore. "Why, child, is there soot on your robes?"

Being helpful, knew Gabrielle, always worked. "Eh, I was, eh, cleaning up the hearth in -"

"In your good robes? When we are to leave?" scolded Maman. She sighed, "You still have little sense." Gabrielle looked down her robes. There was some ash, but only around the bottom of them where the apron had not covered. She did not think anyone but Maman would notice. Besides, they would be traveling by Floo, and she always ended up covered in soot from that, even if others did not.

v - v - v - v - v

'The Palace of Beauxbatons is nestled in a hidden valley in the foothills of the French Alps.' Madame Maxime, headmistress of the Beauxbatons Academy of Magic, considered the sentence she read. The word 'nestled' did not seem to fit. At least, it did not seem to fit her attempt to broaden the school's image. Beauxbatons had never, except in its very early decades, been a witches-only school. But even after accepting wizards centuries ago, the student body was still predominantly female and the school was viewed as the preferred one for witches. Durmstrang, while also accepting both genders, was thought of as the wizard's school. There was no way to claim the mantle of being the preeminent school of magic if such attitudes did not change. And words like 'nestled' were part of that - it seemed too feminine. 'Perched,' though, thought the headmistress, made it sound as if the palace were a vulture looming over the cooling body of the valley. Durmstrang 'perched'. 'Set in a hidden valley' was too bland to be either.

The picture accompanying the words bothered Madame Maxime as well. It was quite a good one really, taken from her favorite Abraxan mount Montaigne as the huge flying horse flew out of the early morning sun. No, she could see the picture was well-executed. It showed the four towers that formed the quadrangle, with the dormitory wings radiating from the sides, and the large, walled formal gardens surrounding it all. The number of dormitories changed, of course, depending on enrollment. There were usually four - three on the left for witches, and one on the right for wizards. This year's sixth class needed seven dormitories, with an almost even split. It was the chaos in Britain and the uncertainty at Durmstrang that made Madame Maxime believe it was Beauxbatons' time.

Yes, the picture itself was lovely. It was the towers that held the classrooms that were the issue. Built at different times according to different whims, the towers were, in her opinion, stylistically at war. Two were round in cross-section, one was a chunky square, and the last was octagonal. Each tower rose to a height of its own to further mismatch. Even the materials used in construction, and thus the resulting colors, were different. The Ivory Tower, which the student body insisted on referring to as the Bone Tower, was a glorious Italian marble. Madame Maxime thought the pale color worked well in all seasons, truly complementing its surroundings. The red granite of the Stone Tower, though, did not blend in with nor accentuate what it stood among. The Aeneus Tower, its octagonal walls covered in copper plates, wore a patina of verdigris. The Green Tower, the students had dubbed it. Its design was what came of allowing alchemists to fund construction. They simply adored their copper vessels. The Glass Tower was a gray, gleaming mass, its walls shading from nearly opaque at the base to almost transparent at the top. While it was her second favorite because of the sheer drama of its architecture, it was also the least practical, at least when considering the top floors. Too much furniture in the upper reaches, for instance, made it seem like a shower of chairs was due. Then there was the issue of being able to look up robes from the floor below. Not, again, very practical. The whole ensemble of structures, thought the headmistress, was nothing short of untidy. She had done her best with the huge silk banners, but there was a limit to what one could do before the Palace looked as if it was wearing trousers.

The problem, mused Madame Maxime as her hand engulfed the fine china cup, besides arrogant builders jealously warding their creations, was a burdensome buildup of history. There was not much history around when the Aeneus Tower went up, and there was no one to exclaim that it clashed with the fieldstone walls of the original building. The Stone Tower went up out of necessity, as the desire for a formal education in the magical arts grew rapidly. The Ivory Tower was an aesthetic coup, and towered over its ugly sisters. As a memorial, it had brought enough history with it to make up for the history it displaced by its construction. The Glass Tower rose from the sheer will of her predecessor's predecessor. The audacity of its erection crystallized the notion of historical preservation, thus severely tying Madame Maxime's substantial hands when it came to burnishing the school's image. Having overcome the circumstances of her own mixed birth, and the bias against those perceived of as half-giants, through hard work and determination, Madame Maxime preferred the future to the past. History was, in her opinion, useful only if it made good copy. Perhaps she would renew her campaign for the flag masts as a unifying feature. If only the trustees were not so tight-fisted with their gold, Beauxbatons would be an even brighter gem.

The headmistress read on, selecting a fancy pastry to accompany her tea. 'A short walking trail leads to a private beach on the Mediterranean' - that was a definite plus, come summer. There had once been such a path to the distant snowy peak higher in the Alps, but its accidental discovery by muggles, and the ski lodge they built, had closed it for decades already. And she had loved the skiing. The path to Epiphanie in the Ardennes had disappeared with the town itself under the relentless, errant pummeling of muggle explosives.

That was an area in which Beauxbatons did not fare well, sighed Madame Maxime. Both Hogwarts and Durmstrang could boast of quaint magical villages just outside the schools, or at least within a short broom flight, where students could get away from the academic setting. The Palace was isolated in its valley; the nearest village was tiny, muggle, and often Confunded. Although, came the thought, that might be considered a positive in these unsettled times. Madame Maxime tried it mentally. 'Beauxbatons is a secure setting in which students will safely explore their magical talents.' That sounded quite good, and did not appear to take unseemly advantage of the tragedy at Hogwarts. She still wondered if claiming 'the most experienced administration' was in poor taste.

v - v - v - v - v

In the smallest room on the highest floor of the Weasley family home, the Burrow, two boys were having difficulties. The owner of the room, Ron Weasley, had toppled from the bed again. He alternatively cursed and laughed from the floor, his arm pinned beneath his back. The other, the Boy-Who-Lived, Harry Potter, was also laughing and cursing in turn because Ron had fallen again, and because the ink had spilled.

"Bloody hell! I think m'arm's off!" noted Ron, sounding oddly delighted.

"Hang on them, I'll d'you 'nother," slurred Harry. Half of the sheet he held was covered in ink. Probably no loss, he thought, considering the last half hour. Tossing the dripping parchment onto the pillow, Harry lifted the glass of green liquid up.

"Not sil'er, right? 'S been done. Mebbe... mebbe..." Ron trailed off.

"Something with claws?" Harry was not stupid. This was not a potion; potions worked faster. And tasted worse. The main ingredient, Harry could tell, was definitely alcohol. But he had had firewhiskey before, and it had not made his head feel like this. He could feel ideas forming and pushing their way to his tongue. He only wished he knew what they were before he said them.

"Ten'ickles. Ten - tent-stickles. Ten o' something, anyway,"said Ron.

"Wha'd'ya call this again?"

"Brain-stormin'. It's like a storm with, er, you know, your brain. 'S from Herm-ron-nee."

"Lot like writing stuff down, like before."

"Herm-my-onee. Cor, she's a real goer! D'ya know what I mean?"

"Yeah," answered Harry. But, he added to himself, I really did not want to. "Wha's this drink called?"

"What d'you mean, yeah?" demanded Ron aggressively, rolling unsteadily to his feet. He expressed no surprise that he now had two arms to use.

"You bleedin' tell me that near every day, you plonker," laughed Harry.

"Huh. I do?"

"What's this stuff again?" repeated Harry, swirling the translucent green liquid in the glass. He decided to finish the glass so it would not spill also.

"Absence. 'S from my Uncle Bilius. Died, you know. After the Grim. 'E always said it helped with his problems. Load of it in the cellar."

There was a knock at the door, to which neither teen responded. Ron was trying to salvage the pillow, while Harry was trying to salvage the parchment that Ron had tossed off the pillow. The aforementioned Hermione pushed open the door. Ron noticed her first, straightened up too quickly, and sent the bedside table crashing.

"Herm-my-o-nee!" Ron greeted her by draping himself on top of her.

"Oh good gracious, Ron. What have you two been up to?" managed Hermione after bracing herself against the door jamb.

"Brain-storming. It's like a storm with , er, your - 'ere, didn't I tell you before?" replied Ron. He bent in for a kiss; Hermione turned her head.

"Really? That's what you two have been doing, is it? It reeks of alcohol in here!" Hermione climbed from under Ron, aided by a sharp, well-placed knuckle dug into his ribs.

"We did some," said Harry, holding the stained parchment up as a shield against the far slighter girl. She pulled it from his grasp, her displeasure obvious. When she pulled out her wand, Harry quickly explained, "Look, Ron said the, er, el'xir was a, a, er..."

"Absence. 'S from my Uncle Bilius. Died, you know," started Ron.

"After the Grim," put in Harry. Hermione's wand began siphoning ink from the sheet.

"Tha's right. 'E always said it helped with his problems," continued Ron. "Helps in cogititting, er -"

"Absence?" doubted Hermione, peering at the bottle. "Might describe the sense you have in drinking it. Do you mean Absinthe? The only thing that does is make one forget one's problems. - Yes, what is it, Ron?" She turned to face him. The tall redhead had loomed over her, and now pulled her into an embrace.

"I didn't get tha' kiss," complained Ron.

"Oh, all right then," acceded Hermione. It was a long kiss, with much facial action on Ron's part. His hands slid past the small of her back, gripping.

"Oy, get a room!" called Harry.

Ron looked up. "Got a room. You bugger off," he growled.

"Let's begin with some sobering charms," said Hermione, wiping her face.

v - v - v - v - v

Gabrielle skittered to a stop after the Floo spat her out. She had not really needed the bracing from the shop-witch's arm. She had also not really needed Maman to tell the Floo her destination. That usually annoyed Gabrielle greatly, but now she understood that it was taking Maman some time to adjust to the fact that she was not a child anymore and was growing up. The trip might have been her fastest yet. The destination was Brindil's Appareils Magique, Agrėė, a shop in Chamoix. Gabrielle hoped there would be enough time leftover to visit some of the other shops in the magical village.

Grandmere, though covered in a burgundy cloak with a hood that completely concealed her face, was nonetheless the entire focus of the wand shop's owner, Monsieur Brindil. He was offering Grandmere a selection of pastries and fruit from a silver tray.

"Tch. Look at the fool," muttered the shop's assistant as she dusted the soot from Gabrielle vigorously. "I hid the deeds this time."

Gabrielle's mother stepped from the Floo gracefully. A flash of annoyance crossed her face when she looked toward her daughter, and she closed on Gabrielle with a handkerchief. "How do you manage to get so filthy?" It was, Gabrielle had learned, a rhetorical question.

"Thank you, but no, Monsieur Brindil. I fear we are late already," lilted Grandmere.

"No, no of course not. Time itself stands still for you. Please, call me Winnie," replied the shop owner. He was a tall man with a bit of a stoop to his posture, and had long fingers. "I could fetch some wine - no, some champagne?"

"Perhaps, but see: my daughter and granddaughter are here."

"Your granddaughter? Are you sure?" Gabrielle frowned at that.

"You are a funny man, Winnie," laughed Grandmere. More seriously she asked, "I will provide a hair for her first wand, as I did for her sister's. Are things prepared?"

"For days already," grumbled the assistant half to herself.

"Yes, of course! If only there was another way," moaned Monsieur Brindil wretchedly.

Grandmere nodded benevolently. "We will begin, and then after, the champagne."

The proprietor led the way to a back room that was almost bare. In the middle of the room, rooted to the floor, was a gray stone pillar. Iron rings projected from the column at the top and midway up. The only other things in the room were two stone-topped tables, upended onto their sides. The hairs on the back of Gabrielle's neck went up.

"Eh, what is that for? What is going to happen?" Gabrielle asked her mother anxiously. This did not look right, certainly not for plucking a hair.

"Hush. They must take a hair from Grandmere, properly," replied Maman. Gabrielle watched as her Grandmere stepped to the pillar, and then was tied at the waist to the heavy ring.

"Maman, why are they tying her?" asked Gabrielle shrilly, in rising panic.

"Calm yourself, child. Do not make a scene. It is necessary."

"I shall explain," said Monsieur Brindil. "But first, please, hold out the arm you favor. Yes, fine. Now, when we say we will take a hair from the Countess, you, perhaps, thought we meant a strand as you see it now. While the Countess's gossamer strands are like spun silver and smoother than the finest silk, they do not yet possess the magical potential to make the core of a wand. For such as that, the Countess must transform."

"Eh, transform?" asked Gabrielle. She was distracted from the wand-maker's explanation by his actions. He had measured her forearm, twice, frowning as he consulted a table of numbers. Grandmere's hands were now tied to the ring above her head, the cloak sliding down to reveal the alabaster skin of her arms.

"Yes, The Countess will transform into a form that is more - uhhhh..." Monsiuer Brindil trailed off as the hood of the cloak was pulled back by the assistant, and Grandmere's fine features were revealed. He stared in rapture.

"Primitive," inserted the shop-witch snidely, staring at the owner in disgust.

"Erot - pardon, exotic. A more exotic form," whispered Monsieur Brindil.

"A few Jeering charms will bring out the beast. So to speak," added the assistant sheepishly, after Maman's glare. "Assuming that pathetic mule remembers how, he will take a hair then. It will not hurt much." She sounded disappointed.

"I do not really need a wand!" blurted Gabrielle. "I, eh, mean, eh, some other -"

"Nonsense, my little bug. You shall have a wand as fine as your sister's, as your mother's," declared Grandmere from the pillar.

"Yes! Yes! A wand of the finest materials, one that is worthy of your radiant essence, my queen," rambled the wand-maker.

"I like this first part," stated the shop-witch. She began an incantation.

It was the most awful thing Gabrielle had ever seen. No, she corrected herself, that business with the locket was the most awful, and featured in nightmares. But this was very reminiscent of that debacle. With every flick of the assistant's wand, Grandmere became more agitated, until she was pulling, straining at her bonds and, to Gabrielle's shock, swearing quite colorfully at her tormentor. Her silvery hair twitched of its own accord. Maman used her wand also, to restrain Monsieur Brindil's weak rescue attempts. Gabrielle thought of pulling out the wand she was not supposed to have, but could not see what she would do with it.

It started with Grandmere's hair, which suddenly twisted itself around her head, sliding beneath the cloak she wore. Her face was concealed by the locks, and the silvery mane wound itself up her pale arms. The hair itself became shaggier. Not shaggy, exactly, thought Gabrielle who watched clutching her face. Just less hair-like. More feather-like. This, realized Gabrielle, was the transformation. The feathery layers covering Grandmere's face parted, and the face of an enormous bird-like creature emerged. It was terrifying to see what had become of her Grandmere.

Events began to go off course soon after. Grandmere let loose an ear-splitting shriek exactly like the cry of a hawk. Fire appeared where her palms would have been. Grandmere tried to throw the balls of flame, but could not. She could, however, use them to burn through the rope tying her... hands.

Maman goaded Monsieur Brindil into action with a sharp jab of her wand, Grandmere's free arm threw its fireball wildly, and the assistant witch sprayed a deluge of water from her wand. Gabrielle reacted too slowly, and did not quite dodge the errant flames. Her robes were only singed, but she received a drenching from the witch's wand anyway. Maman pushed her down behind one of the upturned tables, even as she sent a red bolt from her wand at the wand-maker. Monsieur Brindil, who was coming up from behind the pillar, was having difficulty getting the large iron pliers onto one of the feathers in what was a sort of crest on Grandmere's head. This was most likely due to Grandmere's free arm raking him - there had to be nails under the feathers somewhere, thought Gabrielle. Maman's last spell had not been helpful to that effort. Finally the wizard jerked back, stumbling. Grandmere gave out an enraged squawk, and managed another fireball, which landed merely near the wand-maker. His assistant and Maman began new incantations.

It was not long before Grandmere's feather-like covering grew more hair-like, covering her once more. Grandmere soon reappeared, gently touching a spot on the top of her head. Monsieur Brindil stopped moving again at the sight of her, and stared tragically at the plume-like object in the plier's jaws. The end of the intended core was tinged with red. He cast it away guiltily, and threw himself at Grandmere's feet, begging her forgiveness. She placed a delicate foot on the top of his head and pressed it down. That silenced the shop-owner. Then she lifted his chin with that same foot. "Make the wand first. Then, dear Winnie, I should like the champagne, to help me recover." The assistant huffed as Monsieur Brindil jumped up to obey. Grandmere pulled the cloak's hood back over her face as they returned to the front of the shop.

"You are not hurt, Grandmere?" asked Gabrielle anxiously, since no one else had done so.

"It does sting a little, but it is not much," said Grandmere lightly. "It is nothing compared to giving birth."

v - v - v - v - v

"Come on, stiff upper-lip you two," encouraged Hermione. "I'm sure you've had worse." Harry decided that that was true. He had been possessed by Voldemort and been under the Cruciatus curse. So the Sobering charm was only third on the list. That knowledge did not quell the tingle in his arm though. It may not have been true for Ron, thought Harry, since his best mate was still groaning. "Hmm. No new pageant ideas? No Westminster Slitted-Nostril Show?"

"You don't let anything go, do you?" muttered Ron. He rolled over onto his back, once more on the floor.

"I'm sorry, but I don't seem how the two of you getting, erm, pissed, is going to help," said Hermione.

"That wasn't the intention. It was - did you just say pissed?" said Harry in confusion.

"I am of-age, an adult, if you remember," proclaimed Hermione, though a slight bit of color reached her cheeks.

"That's it then - Hogwarts must be closed if she giving up on Head Girl," observed Ron. He pulled an old shirt laying next to him on the floor over his eyes. "Bloody hell, I think my spine's burnt out."

"The Board of Governors has not made a decision, last I heard," reported Hermione. "It would be nice if Tonks brought the Prophet more regularly. I'm just wondering if this had a point." She flapped the parchment the boys had been working on. "You've had Malfoy for months, for example. Wasn't there a plan?"

"We're working on it," said Harry defensively. When Hermione started to examine the writing again, he quickly added, "Not right this moment."

"Why aren't we getting help from the Order on this? We should be making plans with them - "

"We are working with them. We haven't stepped outside the Burrow since the wedding - that's the Order's plan. Look, they can hardly prop up the Ministry; they're too busy. Besides, Dumbledore didn't tell them anything - there had to be a reason," said Harry.

"What about Remus then?" asked Hermione.

"Has he come back from trying to talk to the werewolves again?"

"No," admitted the girl.

"Can you make port-keys yet?" asked Ron.

"It's not as easy as pointing a wand and not garbling the incantation, you know," said Hermione heatedly. "I got a garden gnome to disappear yesterday."

"That's excellent!" enthused Harry. "Getting away is - "

"I don't know where it went! It was supposed to end up by the shed."

"Aw, don't worry. The little blighters always come back," reassured Ron. Hermione still looked upset, but focused on the parchment instead of arguing.

"Harry, you've ticked 'disider Riddle's lones, relny on burn'," noted Hermione after a long silence. "What in Merlin's name do you mean?"

"Harry looked at the list of ideas with her. Depending on when old Bilius's Peculiar had kicked in, it was possible he would not know either. The item indicated by Hermione's finger, though, was plainly written. "That's 'disinter Riddle's bones, rebury or burn.'"

"You want to rob Riddle's grave?" came Hermione's incredulous question.

"No, we want to - move - his grave," clarified Harry. "That's not the same." Ron started laughing on the floor, getting louder each second until Harry kicked at him. "You may need to do the pillock again," indicated Harry to Hermione. She pinked for some reason.

"No," said Ron quite seriously. Then he snorted and explained, "If we dig up his Dad, right; what if we put some pranked bones back? You see? The Dark Sod'll be sitting in his potion thingie, right, the bone'll be dropped in, and whoomp! Flaming letters saying, saying - Up Yours Fu-"

"Ron!" rebuked Hermione. "This isn't something -"

"That's brilliant," declared Harry. "It - it could rocket around the inside of the cauldron first!"

"Blow the thing into sky, then write 'Bite my -'"

"Ron. Enough."

"Turn him into a squid - no, a jellyfish!"

"Release a neurotoxin that kills him instantly," suggested Hermione.

"Yeah, release a - a what?" asked Ron.

"Neurotoxin. To kill whatever form Voldemort had, and maybe whichever Death Eaters are nearby." The two boys looked at the witch like she was the neurotoxin bomb that had not yet gone off. That was, thought Harry, not exactly funny.

"Erm, that's... that's an idea too," allowed Harry.

"Bloody scary one," added Ron. "Can we still have the writing?"

"How would we move Riddle's grave anyway, if we can't leave the Burrow?"

Harry answered. "Just because we haven't left the Burrow doesn't mean that we can't or won't. We just won't mention it first. Besides, I was thinking of asking the house-elves. I'd bet my Firebolt they'd be so neat that the Dark Todger would never know until, er, whatever.

"I'd still like to blow the snake-buggerer up," said Ron. Harry noticed Hermione roll her eyes.

"The bone thing was Ron's idea. Do I, er, need to leave you two?" teased Harry, waggling his eyebrows. Hermione colored again.

v - v - v - v - v

Monsieur Brindil presented the wand, on a velvet-lined tray, to Grandmere and Maman. Grandmere pulled back her hood to offer him a smile, which caused his knees to buckle. He set the wand aside to bring out the champagne, which his assistant had, with much grumbling and complaining, been sent to acquire while he had worked.

Now it was the assistant that brought the wand to Gabrielle, as if what she thought of the wand did not matter. And it did not matter, knew Gabrielle. After what her Grandmere had gone through, there was no way Gabrielle would reject the wand. And, of course, she already had a wand in any case. Gabrielle sensed as soon as she picked it up that it was not the wand for her. It felt wrong, like an ill-fitted shoe. Still, even given the ordeal that Grandmere had endured for its creation, Gabrielle knew that she had to say something if it was not perfect.

"Eh, it is, eh, bent," said Gabrielle to the assistant. The wand itself was done in the rustic style, the wood retaining the essence of the original twig, which gave it a bumpy appearance. Gabrielle preferred the smoothly turned taper of her real wand.

The witch picked up the wand and sighted down the length of it. "It is not bent. That is a twist."

"It can be fixed? Without, eh, taking another hair?"

The assistant rolled the wand on the table. As it rolled it turned to the left. "I should not think it broken. That is a helical twist, which can form a meta-core. You often see those in powerful wands."

Gabrielle wondered if this was a trick to get her to accept damaged goods. She had not heard of such a thing before. If Fleur's wand had such a twist, she surely would have bragged to everyone about it. Maman, thought Gabrielle, would certainly have an opinion, but what if they needed to begin again with a new hair? Gabrielle had not liked seeing Grandmere suffer like that. Especially as this was not going to actually be her wand. "Eh..."

"Give it a try; it might surprise you."

Gabrielle raised the wand. It still felt wrong. She started, "Innoxus Confla -"

The assistant grabbed the wand and pulled it down. "A fire spell? Really? Not with your first wand, you don't. Just give it a wave, or try something with less damage potential. This is a shop with a lot of inventory. Expensive inventory."

Gabrielle thought that was being rather ridiculous. Of course, the witch would not know that conjuring a flame had been the first spell she had done with her real wand. It was, unfortunately, also her best spell. Gabrielle mentally ran down the list of other spells she had managed. It was regrettably short. If she was not going to be allowed a small conjuration, then the shop-witch would certainly not let her aim the wand at someone else. That removed the silencing spell and the curse she had learned from her coven sister, Hermione, from consideration. That left only one more spell, one that, of course, did not always work for her. Gabrielle looked around for a suitable object, and found one conveniently close.

"What are you doing?" asked the assistant curiously as Gabrielle backed up halfway across the shop. Gabrielle did not answer, but sprinted forward, jumped up, and landed with wand held out.

"Accio wand!" cried Gabrielle, focusing on the unclaimed dark stick that lay on the table.

It was not, perhaps, thought Gabrielle with a grimace, the best choice choice of spell to try in a wand shop. Before she could end the magic, hundreds of the stacked boxes tumbled from the shelves, spilling an equal number of wands clattering onto the floor. It was the new wand's fault! Even though it was not going to truly be her wand, the knobbly stick was trying to impress. A second thought suggested that she could also have been, perhaps, a little, tiny bit more specific. Or perhaps she was, as the assistant sharply exclaimed, an idiot.

v - v - v - v - v

Madame Maxine tapped the table lightly with her fingers. Teacups jumped and rattled their spoons on down the long table. The noise disrupted the chorus of complaints concerning over-crowding. The headmistress could dismiss those readily; the true issue was not the space for the additional students, but the space in the staff's schedules for the additional work. The phrase 'beginning each year fully-staffed' played in her mind to an appreciative audience. She had used it in the promotional literature for years - a subtle slight to the competitors of Beauxbatons. "It is time we moved on to the next agenda item," she urged politely. "Herr Professor, if you would?"

"Thank you, Headmistress. Yes. I have arranged for the Goblet of Fire, yes, to be brought to Beauxbatons," began Klaus Festeller. Madame Maxime beamed at him indulgently as the professor described his plan. He was an older wizard, gray in the hair and red in the face, but not yet slowing down. A neatly trimmed beard hid a ragged scar; she wondered if the mustache covered another. Madame Maxime found herself quite taken with him, which was unusual not only because he was German and she had endured Grindelwald's reign of terror, but because he also taught Magical History. Madame Maxime's view of history was utilitarian, and she normally had little regard for those whose world's were defined by it. Festeller was a surprise. It had taken quite a bit of convincing to provide the galleons for his first expedition, which he had assured would help raise the school's prestige. It took much less effort the following years. Festeller did not view history as a past, but as a present that he wanted to touch. Touch, and bring back. The treasures and relics of wizarding history found a home in the school's collections, sounded impressive in the literature, and created a much-desired commodity: access.

"Nein! The plan is doomed," burst out Tearlach Korbel. He was quite a fit wizard with an abrupt manner, and instructed in the Martial Arts. Madame Maxime was not so predisposed to him, and thought him quite ambitious. Each year he petitioned her to bring Beauxbatons' less intense curriculum more into line with his beloved Durmstrang. "The students learn nothing to protect themselves until the third year."

"Yes. The younger students will only, yes, observe on the expedition, of course," explained Festeller.

"Why include the sixth and fifth -" began Mademoiselle Deudancorp.

"-classes at all? They can be very vexing," finished Mademoiselle Deudancorp. The twin, spinster witches taught Wand Arts. Madame Maxime had spoken to them about etiquette, but they still tended to share one cup.

"The purpose, yes, is to help the Goblet. It was strongly Confunded. This choosing, yes, will cause it to regain its confidence," explained Festeller.

A cup was loudly overturned into its saucer. All eyes turned to the ancient, veiled figure of Madame Sombrevoir, who instructed in the Divining Arts. She examined the dregs from the tea critically. "The endeavor will be successful. Dark aspects will gather. Tragedy looms. You must avoid succumbing to temptation." She fell silent, and pulled out her Tarot cards. Her ragged voice added, "And curses."

"The students can be better prepared, with permission," hinted Professor Korbel. "The situation in Britain -"

"Is in Britain," interrupted Madame Maxime. "The travel restrictions and tracking of long-range apparitions are an effective response." Tearlach looked unhappy, but did not challenge her. The headmistress sighed, "We will discuss it privately, Tearlach. Thank you, Professor Festeller.

"Speaking of expanded curriculum, my dear Professor Elevagre, have you succeeded in obtaining the new specimens?"

The professor for the Natural Arts, an older, slight wizard, looked as one would staring into one's doom. "Yes, except for the manticore. The Ministry would not provide a license," he said flatly.

"Excellent still. Beauxbatons will have the foremost program! You are twice the professor that Hagrid is," praised Madame Maxime.

"Not even half of the man," muttered Elevagre. He addressed Madame Maxime, "Perhaps an assistant could be allowed? There are the Abraxans..."

"A fine idea. Extra credit for the students, hmm?" replied Madame Maxime. The professor looked down at his hands forlornly. "The final item today is Gabrielle Delacour. She is, of course, Fleur's younger sister. That means, gentlemen, that you should be wary of your interactions." And, though she did not say it, certain witches would also do well to check themselves. "Now, any final words, Madame Sombrevoir?"

"Light will pierce the dark. Fire will be a plague. Wine will turn to butterbeer," stated the Divining Arts teacher, looking down at the cards. The first one, thought Madame Maxime, was bit vague. The second sounded inconvenient; the last sounded dreadful. "Increase the healing budget twenty percent, and move the whiskey for your Abraxans." That was a bit more useful, and Madame Maxime noted them down. She did indicate only a ten percent increase, though, in that note.

v - v - v - v - v

"Severus," rasped the figure weakly from where he lay on the bed. "The potions..."

Severus Snape, the former Hogwarts professor and potions master, stood up from where he knelt to approach. The aging body of the gray-faced wizard on the bed looked at him once, then a second time as the hand of the puppet-master turned. The corporeal form of Ogden Dickinbottom was quickly becoming the dried-up husk of the same as it hosted the non-corporeal Dark Lord. The old wizard had agreed to the bargain willingly, believing he would regain his vitality, his virility. And, thought Snape, he had. The Dark Lord drove himself ceaselessly, and his vessel. The days were spent arranging for the return of the Chairman of the Wizard Alliance for Social Isolation party, and building allegiances in the Ministry. The nights were spent encouraging petty attacks on muggles by his Death Eaters, and who knew what else. The snatches of muggle news one overheard were well past disturbing. The children...

Snape poured a measure of the strengthening draught into a goblet and helped the body on the bed drink. The vitality and virility that Ogden experienced now would be fleeting; it was as a candle thrown onto the coals. It could not last. Which, considered Snape, was the reason he had approached Dickinbottom in the first place. It was just happening too quickly for the former professor's machinations. The problem, again, was Potter. The werewolf Frenrir had never returned from his attempt, and there were only rumors as to his fate. So that, thought Snape, had gone according to plan. What had not been anticipated was the abduction of Draco, followed by - nothing. There had been no attempt, as far as Snape could discern, at communication, neither sophisticatedly subtle nor naively amateurish. He had even taken to looking through the Prophet's paid advertisements. It was classic Potter - accomplish the most ridiculous task, then blunder on the next step.

"Gregorovitch, Snape," began the Lord Voldemort more strongly. The face of Ogden Dickinbottom lagged only slightly. "He possessed it, and he is where I will begin following the trail." No assistance was needed for draining the restorative the potion master poured.

Snape occluded his mind more strongly. He knew what 'it' referred to, and needed to keep his doubts well-hidden. The Dark Lord chasing after fairy-tale wands was a confusing development, and further added strain on the aged body. "Yes, my lord?"

"I have set plans in motion for an excursion to the continent to that end. The wretched rat must be found, also, and dealt with, and that which he should have brought must be recovered," explained the Lord Voldemort. The restorative often left him less taciturn, and more expansive. Snape was not so much a confidant than nursemaid these days, though. "Congratulations on Frenrir."

Snape damped down any reaction. There was no point in denying anything. "My lord," he said deferentially.

"Lord Voldemort sees all, my servant. Still there is no word from Potter." The last was not a question. "Perhaps you are wrong?"

"No, my lord. Potter has young Malfoy. It is likely he had no real plan."

"We will provide him with one, then. Do not allow any more of my Death Eaters to go after the boy," ordered the Dark Lord. He curled a lip, "No matter how much they annoy you. I will be the one to destroy Potter." The Dark Lord continued, getting to his feet. "I will create a new body - I believe you retrieved some of the blood?"

"Yes, my lord. It has preserved nicely."

"How very... loyal," enjoyed the Dark Lord. Snape once more felt it necessary to further occlude his mind. "But your skills are too useful to hamper. I have a candidate."

v - v - v - v - v

As always, please leave a review.


	2. The Horn of a Dilemma

Chapter Two - The Horn of a Dilemma

Two months earlier, in May.

The house-elves have really outdone themselves, thought Gabrielle, as she examined the study carol. It was the one closest to the odd little corner in the very back of the library. Gabrielle liked to pull the high-sided desk over to the acute angle that the walls formed. It made a very quiet and private spot. She liked the seclusion when she got a letter from George, at least when she got a letter that had not yet burst into song, or when she was depressed. Like she was feeling presently. Except now the house-elves had welded the nearest study carols to the floor, the deformed tiles looking like hands grabbing the legs. Gabrielle knew that she had neglected to return the furniture to its rightful place on occasion, but this was completely uncalled for.

The depression was brought on by last two essays she had turned in for Wand Arts. The assignments had been returned to Gabrielle with a great number of sentences circled in flickering red, with the demand "Expand!" written next to each one. She was the only one expected to redo the assignments in her class. It was not fair, and Gabrielle knew the work on warming charms was at least Acceptable because that was what Monique had received as a mark after, for the most part, copying Gabrielle's essay. Two things occurred to Gabrielle. The first was that she should see what Monique had changed and use that. The second was that she should quit letting Monique see her work, as either Mademoiselle Deudancorp or Mademoiselle Deudancorp had noticed the similarities, and was punishing the wrong party. That didn't explain last week's rejected work though, sighed Gabrielle, or all the last several months. The twin professors, one for charms and one for transfiguration, seemed to have taken a disliking to Gabrielle from the very start. It did not help at all that she had to use the wand from Maman, with the hair from Grandmere as its core, instead of her real wand, just because she had made the mistake of having it out that very first class. Gabrielle found that magic with the second, twisted wand tended to be erratic. Painfully so, at times. For which she had apologized all ready.

If she was going to let herself sink into misery, decided Gabrielle, it was going to be in private. She slunk along the rear wall of the library, quickly slipping past any occupied aisles. Gabrielle checked the legs of the study carols until she found one that would still slide. The elves had been very busy, and it was too far from the niche for her to drag unless she wanted everyone in the library staring at her. There was a way around that though.

"Eh, Pepi-Z?" whispered Gabrielle. The zombie pygmy puffskein, just a red wool bobble now, bounced and tugged at its tether in acknowledgment. "Can anyone see?" Two tugs meant no. The little ball of yarn was tied by a thread to a clip in her hair. Gabrielle had started the habit of wearing her first pet in her hair shortly after Madame Chouisse's cat started living with them. Madame Chouisse had been feeling a little ill when Gabrielle had last been brought around to do chores for her. The aging witch had gone from feeling under the weather to being under a healer's care to being under the ground so quickly! It was a shock, but not as much as the arrival of a very unhappy goblin, in a formal black frock coat and top hat, at Delacour manor's door. The goblin, who Gabrielle had initially feared was there to reclaim the Gringotts inkpot that Fred Weasley had given her, was bleeding from his arm from several deep scratches. Those were undoubtedly from the stiff, petrified black cat that the goblin held by its puffed tail. A black cat that had been bequeathed to Gabrielle by the deceased Madame Chouisse, and a black cat that was still terrified of Gabrielle years after she had shattered herself against the wall in the Chouisse home. Gabrielle had always been sorry about the effect on the animal, and so had tried to make the cat comfortable in its new home. Then the cat ate poor Pepi-Z. For Poisseux, Gabrielle's zombie toad, that was an outright declaration of war. The spellotape-bodied toad could not manage vicious, but it could do relentless. The ersatz amphibian's vengeance burned night and day, and he harried the cat whenever he managed to catch up. Fortunately, Pepi-Z was not digestible, aside from his licorice tongue which was now very much shorter, and her pet was coughed up in a large hairball. At least, it had been fortunate for him; Gabrielle had had to clean up the mess. After a good, vigorous washing, Gabrielle hit upon the idea of clipping the little bobble to her hair for safety, like the wizard at the wedding who had the dove. Pepi-Z also made a good lookout - an amazing one, really, if one took into account that he did not seem to have eyes.

Gabrielle took her handbag from her canvas knapsack. It was all she carried in it really. The handbag, and its magicked liner from George, held everything else. Gabrielle slid her finger along the seal to open it, then slowly worked the study carol into it. This was the easy part. The hard part was getting something so large back out, since she had to work out which bit should come out first. It might come out upside-down.

v - v - v - v - v

Comfortably hidden from the world, and with a thick book on the entire spectrum of heating charms, Gabrielle started the tedious task of reworking her essay. It was possible, thought Gabrielle, that getting a chance to redo work was better than receiving a poor mark, but nothing seemed to satisfy either Mademoiselle Deudancorp. It was not that Gabrielle did not try. She put in a good amount of effort to complete assignments that were perfectly acceptable for others, which was why Monique copied them when she fell behind. This meant, though, that Gabrielle had twice the workload for Wand Arts as anyone else: the original assignment, and then whatever was required to "Expand!"

Pepi-Z jumped on his tether just as Gabrielle finished adding details as to why a cooling charm was not actually the reverse of a heating charm. She regretted mentioning the other charm at all, and had done so just to pad out a paragraph. Now the essay was half again as long as required. The tidbit about the cooling charm had come from one of George's letters. They were full of asides like that, and curiously devoid of declarations of affection. Still, the thought cheered her, he does write. The mutual correspondence had nearly not begun at all, as Gabrielle had failed to account for the absolutely ridiculous cost of an International Post owl. She had had to beg for an advance on her allowance, to send a reply that consisted mostly of apologies for how slow she had been to reply. Papa was certainly not going to give her extra to send letters to "that Englishman." Maman was not inclined to increase her funds either, since it kept her from buying clothes that were normal. Thankfully, George's next letter included return postage, which Gabrielle took as an important sign. It also included order forms, badly translated. Gabrielle blamed that on Fred.

"Toc Toc!" chirped a cheery voice. A head full of brunette curls levered itself over the front of the study carol, tipping it forward so that Gabrielle had to grab it to steady it. It was her best friend, Monique. "Allo Gigi! I found you."

"Hi, eh, Moany," replied Gabrielle, purposefully using the nickname Monique disliked.

"It's Nicky."

"It's Gabrielle."

"Everybody calls you Gigi," pouted Monique, dropping back down.

"You aren't just everybody, Monique," said Gabrielle. In the formal atmosphere of the manor houses, using one's proper name seemed natural. Gabrielle liked her name, but there were plenty of girls who wanted to escape the formality or gain a new identity. In some cases, Gabrielle could see why. Alhertine became Allie, Afrodille became Dilly, Logestilla became Tilly, and Brunelle became, thankfully, just Nelle. Thankfully because it was becoming... silly. Gabrielle's roommate, Esmeraude, refused to be the shorter Esme and dubbed herself Lucretia. On the very first night, Lucretia, then Esmeraude, had drawn a line down the center of the room with her wand. Gabrielle was mostly okay with that because a line worked both ways. As long as it did not move. They were polite to each other, but did not talk much. Once the girl had decided to become Lucretia, her side of the room was always much darker, even with Gabrielle's side of the windows uncovered. Smokier too, which would have been a real problem had not the resident prefect done a charm for her. Even Gabrielle had been Elle, which was not too bad since it could have been Gabby, for a short time. Then the modified howler from the twins had arrived, loudly, and quite badly, singing her praises as Gigi to the entire Dining Chamber. All because Gabrielle had mailed back a completed order form.

"Aw, you're sweet. Gabrielle then. Are you hungry? We're going to have a picnic down by the river. You've - got - to come. What are you working on?" asked Monique.

Gabrielle slumped. "I have to, eh, rewrite the stupid Wand Arts essays."

"Really? Merlin, Mademoiselle Deudancorp surely has the wand out for you."

"Mademoiselle Deudancorp also, I think," added Gabrielle. It was a standard Beauxbatons joke. As was the one where it was said that Madame Maxime only had to pay one salary because Mademoiselle Deudancorp only thought she had a twin, and was really doing twice the work. People said it even though they saw the two of them in the Dining Chamber, sharing one plate. One of the professors would work on the meat, the other would work on the vegetable, and each would feed the other in turns. Gabrielle found it oddly disgusting to watch.

"You probably shouldn't have hit her with - "

"It was not my fault and I have apologized for that already. Many times," interrupted Gabrielle bitterly.

"You know, some sun would improve your mood. You're so pale, a little color would look nice on you," said Monique after a moment.

Even while feeling picked on, the assertion made Gabrielle smile. Ever since she had met Monique, her friend had said those exact words, more or less, as soon as the springtime started turning to early summer. It was very silly. Gabrielle was pale, and she stayed that way. She did not tan, nor did she burn. No matter how often she was brought to a beach, or how long she laid on a blanket on the lawn. Yet when the weather turned warm enough, Monique, who not only tanned but did so spectacularly, would always insist that what Gabrielle needed was some color.

Gabrielle supposed that a break had been earned. The other essay needing rework, a treatise on transfiguring wooden boxes, had fewer marks on it anyway. "All right, I'll come," said Gabrielle. She felt better already, and she wondered if she could leave the study carol here, so she could use it later. Realizing that she would have to come back to it to finish the extra work, and her normal work, was ruining her mood again though, so she decided not to think about either.

"Do you think we'll see Impy?" asked Monique with exaggerated casualness.

Gabrielle sighed. Of course they would, he always turned up whenever Gabrielle stepped beyond the palace's formal garden's walls. Impy, short for Impudanae, the name she had given him, was a huge unicorn that had become completely obsessed with Gabrielle during her second Natural Arts trip to the Fey Woods. It was supposed to be every girl's fantasy: a gorgeous, silvery-white unicorn at one's side, defending one from enemies and whisking one to amazing magical places. The reality was she did not know how to ride, her classmates were really not her enemies, and, while the unicorn was breathtakingly beautiful and graceful, it was also very large, armed with sharp hooves and a meter of horn, and possessed of almost no depth perception. Impy had, admittedly quite gracefully, crushed the bones in Gabrielle's foot, twice. The first time had been the worst. Her shrieks of agony had panicked the noble animal, and Impy then defended her viciously from any and all attempts to help. Professor Elevagre, who taught the Natural Arts, ended up silencing her and telling her that she had to hop back to the wards at the garden's wall. That had been horrible, particularly with almost seven hundred kilo of distraught magical beast jostling and nudging her nervously. Gabrielle learned that the human foot had nearly as many bones as the human hand, and that the pain of Skele-Gro was proportional to the number of bones needed, not the size of the bones needed.

The second time her foot was crushed, her right foot this time, was only two weeks later, when Gabrielle found herself pinned between the field-stone wall surrounding the palace grounds and the huge animal. Impudanae had cut in closer to nibble a wild saluberry vine - excellent for concentration, may cause memory loss - as he kept pace beside her, and she had had no way to dodge his powerful hoof. The school's healer, Monsieur Maltranchier, had prescribed another night of Skele-Gro, and thick metal boots that she was to wear at all times when she was outside the boundary wall, to cut down on potion expenses. Few things are as mortifying as slowly clomping along after everyone else in over-sized iron galoshes.

There was a bright side, though, to trudging about in metal footwear. Gabrielle could now race from the Grand Entrance Hall to the balcony of the Glass Tower without even stopping once. And, her legs were no longer knobby-kneed sticks; they could be considered almost shapely even by Fleur's standards. Besides, the metal protection worked.

"I am, eh, sure he will find me," shrugged Gabrielle. Monique loved all things unicorn.

"Only... I invited Tristen to come, and he said he would," grinned Monique sheepishly.

"What? Monique! I can not go, if that is the case. If Impy sees-"

"I think it will be all right..."

"No! Have you forgotten Elmsley?" demanded Gabrielle. Had Monique lost her senses? Pippin Elmsley had inadvertently strayed too close to the unicorn and Gabrielle, and had been gored for no other reason than being a boy. Not seriously, thankfully, because Gabrielle had grabbed Impy's tail. That had done nothing but make the unicorn turn his head, and for his horn to miss Elmsley's heart. And, of course, to drag Gabrielle along the ground until a hoof knocked her silly.

"He will be all right if he is holding my hand," explained the brunette, who promptly blushed. Ah, thought Gabrielle.

"Eh, when did you become such a chaude lapin?" teased Gabrielle. "I thought it was, eh, Royden that -"

"He is a complete berk!" interrupted Monique. "Tristen is much nicer. And cute!"

Gabrielle put on a mock frown. "You only want me there for Impy then?"

"That's right! Also, you could use a lot more sun. You spend too much time in the library," said Monique. Gabrielle started to gather up her things. She also thought she spent too much time in the library, but where else could she find things to satisfy the demand to expand? "Anyway," continued Monique. "Who had all the chaperones following her and her hot date? Now go get your boots and meet us by the gates. I'm off to the kitchens!" Gabrielle watched as her friend hurried off, every third step a skip. It was obvious, thought Gabrielle, that someone's plan was going well.

Gabrielle did not really need to go and get her protective footwear. The iron gear was in her handbag. Most things were. Gabrielle had decided that Lucretia needed her privacy to do whatever she did in her dim corners. All Gabrielle needed to do was to pull the boots out where no one else could see. The fewer people who knew about the handbag, of course, the better. She picked up the thick charms books. Leaving the study carol where it was was one thing, leaving books about was quite another. A jiggle from the woolen ball made her look up - Monique was back.

"Remember to wear something under your robes. You can't get tan with them on," called Monique a bit too loudly. A chorus of shushing came from the aisles. It was not, Gabrielle knew, conscientious students, but stuffy, self-appointed guardian books doing it. Monique made a face at the shelf she was nearest, then turned and rushed off again.

Gabrielle headed for the Entrance Hall of the palace ruminating on the meaning behind Monique's comments. Wear something under her robes? She always wore something under her robes. Why wondered Gabrielle, did Monique suspect otherwise? It was no where near warm enough for that to be a good idea anyway. The needling about the hot date bothered Gabrielle a little as well. Monique was referring to the Halloween Ball, to which George had come as Gabrielle's escort. It had taken quite a lot of effort on Gabrielle's part to get him to agree, which had included threatening to burn order forms and sending back the special boxes that came by owl. Even still, they, for Fred had to be involved, Gabrielle was sure of it, had demanded something in return. That something was the ridiculous requirement that she try out for a spot on the dormitory quidditch team's first-year practice squad. As a beater. Each dorm had its own team; there were seven teams this year, three more than usual.

And Gabrielle had done so, even though the school's brooms did not work properly. She often got the one that seemed to cut out every few seconds, which meant Gabrielle had to climb madly for altitude between plummets. She was surprised to admit it to herself, but it had been fun. Gabrielle had no trouble finding bludgers to hit even with her erratic, pitching flight, and she was sure she would have been able to hit them harder with practice. Of course, the other observers found her attempt hilarious, while the team's coach found the rain of bludgers onto the other fliers horrifying. Gabrielle was teased for weeks as the Delacour Death-Blossom and, suspiciously, the Blond Bludger. The twins' true interest was revealed when they asked for the medical report following the single practice. George wrote that Fred had been disappointed, but Gabrielle herself had been appalled, and was very glad she had not been able to hit the iron balls any harder.

Still, reminisced Gabrielle, it had been worth it to have George there. A niggling thought opined that it was he who should have done the begging and she who should have set the conditions, but since the result would have been the same she ignored it. Her friends were stunned to meet him, partly, thought Gabrielle, because they had not actually believed her, and partly because, in his dark robes with the shoulders trimmed in Re'em fur, George stood out like, well, like a man among boys. He was quickly the center of attention, because of that and because, regardless of laws, prohibitions, and threats of punishment, the market for Wheezes had been seeded. George was a celebrity, and Gabrielle proudly clung to his arm. He danced through the night almost exclusively with her; his only other partners were the professors, both witches and, quite briefly, wizards. Gabrielle thought that natural, of course, as it was their fate to be together. So there had been no need to mention his visit to Maman and Papa. The traitorous thought pointed out that George could hardly have done otherwise - if he danced with one covetous onlooker he would have to dance with a dozens.

That Gabrielle had monopolized George's attention made her the target of envious stares, jealous whispers, and hostile glares. It was like she had become Fleur for the evening. The sudden interest was particularly notable among the second class and terminale class witches, who saw, as did Gabrielle, potential husband material. Not that she needed such motivation, but Gabrielle did not leave George's side, nor the protection of his quick wand. A wand which, when there was a break in the dancing, got busy causing trouble. The little fountain that normally supplied wine for the formal dinners still spouted only butterbeer more than six months later. Since it had also supplied the professors, Gabrielle always suspected its altered state was partly responsible for the extra work. A large, unexpected display of Weasley Wildfire fireworks closed out the night, and made Gabrielle wonder if Fred had made the trip as well.

While Gabrielle knew that it was probably George himself, she still considered the possibility that it was his antics that had made all the chaperones follow them so closely. It was certainly likely that they believed they had to protect her, ignoring her reassurances. He was one of the infamous Weasley twins, a very little bit older, and English, while she was part Veela and, if she had been Fleur, the object of lecherous desire. All that their conspicuous watching and disruptive coughing had done was to ruin her strategy for a kiss at the end of the night, and to fail to protect poor Natuche and stop Tibault Granencole.

Gabrielle did not like remembering the last part. She still believed that what she had done was right, but there was always the bowel-tightening worry as to whether anyone else would think so. There was also the guilt she felt because Impudanae had been hurt. While that fact had explained things well enough, Gabrielle knew the unicorn seemed to love her, and she had in some way used him. Nursing the beast back to health did not feel like sufficient penitence.

v - v - v - v - v

The iron boots made a small 'ting' when they slipped past each other as they walked. It was a pleasant kind of sound to Gabrielle's ears. It meant, for one thing, that she was not in the library. It also alerted others to her presence. The small knot of fellow students by the garden gate turned to her. Allie and Dilly were there, so was Tristen, looking a little sheepish, and... Lucretia? Behind Gabrielle's roommate was a taller, cloaked figure, all in black and wearing gloves even in the early summer's warmth. Monique was not there.

"Hello Gigi," greeted Dilly cheerfully. "Where's Nicky?"

"Eh, she was going to the kitchens," replied Gabrielle. She tried not to stare at the figure behind Lucretia. It seemed to Gabrielle that her roommate hardly ever left the shared room, and now she had found someone as weird as her?

"Here she comes!" pointed Allie. She waved madly. Lucretia heaved a heavy sigh. Gabrielle turned to see Monique struggling down the path from the palace with two large baskets.

No one moved, so Gabrielle suggested, "Tristen, you, eh, should help, yes?"

"Me? I mean, uh, sure." Tristen resigned himself to the task, and hurried back toward Monique.

"Where were you Gigi? Nicky started looking for you ages ago," asked Allie.

"I was in the library, in the back," explained Gabrielle. Tristen had reached Monique, who gratefully handed him both baskets.

"That's where I told her to look," claimed Dilly. "I bet a galleon she went to the Bone Tower anyway." The Bone Tower was where the Wand Arts classes were held. Gabrielle frankly avoided it as much as she could. Tristen, she noticed, was also struggling, but was trying not to show it. If you watched how far apart his feet were when he walked, though, it was obvious.

"I would have told her to start looking under the staircases in the Green Tower," said Allie. "Some of those niches and cupboards are really big."

"Sounds like someone has done some exploring! I wonder with who-oo-oo?" teased Dilly.

"I - I - I meant I - heard - that they were big," said Allie quickly.

"And why would I be there?" demanded Gabrielle. "What are you saying?" She thought she did the outrage really well.

" I - No, Gigi. I didn't mean - You always hide when you get a letter."

"A hot letter!" added Dilly.

"I do not hide. I just want some privacy," explained Gabrielle. Anyway, anecdotes about customers were not really very hot, nor were tips from the workshop. But, thought Gabrielle, he does write.

"Mordicai, perhaps we can wait somewhere less... banal?" suggested Lucretia archly.

"Eh, you are not coming then?" asked Gabrielle. It would have been a surprise.

"Please. We are going down to the shady grove, to summon the shadows there," explained Lucretia dramatically.

"I never heard it called - that - before," whispered Dilly loudly to Allie. Lucretia launched a withering glare, then pulled her hood forward when the two girls started giggling and laughing.

Monique arrived ahead of Tristen, who was doing his best to look as if the baskets were nothing compared to the manly loads he would normally carry every day. "Can anyone do a feather-weight spell? Mine didn't really work, and -"

"Hey! Delacour!"

The girls looked to the shout. Mordicai looked away. The boy calling and jerking his thumb at Gabrielle was a fifth classmen named Drago. "I'll be right back," sighed Gabrielle.

"Gabrielle, don't go. Don't encourage that creep," advised Monique. "He's a bully."

No, thought Gabrielle, Drago was loud, rude, and quick to anger, but not a bully, not really. He was bigger than most boys even in the upper classes, and talented magically, which made him naturally intimidating. But Drago was just a noisy braggard compared to Granecole. "Don't worry Monique." It helped to know that Drago's idea of funny was flatulence.

Drago stepped away from his companions, who were busy trying to jinx each other. He had wavy black hair that always looked damp, and a thin goatee that added to his rank among the other boys. Girls that Gabrielle knew thought it just looked scraggly. Drago strode toward her, brimming with the confidence of knowing that others already knew to get out of his way. "Well? Come on."

"Eh, yes?" Gabrielle did not have to put up with rudeness, though.

"You know, is it here? Did it arrive?" This, thought Gabrielle, is why she was not afraid of Drago. His menacing boorishness could disappear in a second to be replaced by the puppy expecting a treat. And one day some other girl will figure that out.

Gabrielle was about to reply truthfully when Pepi-Z jerked a warning. "I, eh, do not know what you mean." Drago's face went from confused to annoyed, then to a forced grin. Gabrielle thought that it actually hurt him to manage it.

"Is there a problem here?" rasped Madame Sombrevoir in her leathery voice. Her face was hidden, as usual, by a gauzy black veil, but that somehow made her gaze more noticeable.

"Eh, no, Professor," replied Gabrielle with a smile. Madame Sombrevoir taught Divining Arts, but she herself would say that she only offered advice on how to sense the Hidden Realm. Gabrielle learned that Madame Sombrevoir assigned marks based on attendance and behavior. One only needed to show up and remain quiet to receive an acceptable mark. Higher marks were earned by actually doing the exercises and attempting to See. If one had talent, then one was Outstanding. Gabrielle liked the class; Madame Sombrevoir had said she had true talent. While only a few others managed murky mists, Gabrielle had seen very detailed images, twice, in the classroom's large crystal ball. Unfortunately, both visions had been about the manufacture of incense. Gabrielle learned that she was, according to the Professor's diagnosis, too grounded by the sensory humours. Exercises to find other guideposts to the Hidden Realm, by plugging her nose and coating her tongue with a tar-like extract, had not so far been anything but unpleasant. "We - eh, his palm. I was going to, eh, read his palm." Drago rolled his eyes.

"Ah, it is good to practice. Mademoiselle Desgoths and Monsieur Pommpier will forgive me if I am a little late," said Madame Sombrevoir. "Begin."

With a huff of irritation, Drago extended his left hand out to Gabrielle, and tried to look like he was not actually a part of the proceedings. Gabrielle took the offered palm with some of the same irritation; it had been a ridiculous thing to say. It was only because the Professor was there that it was the first thing she thought of. Drago, noted Gabrielle, did not clean under his fingernails, possibly ever. At least the dirt on his palm made the lines stand out. "Eh..."

"Start with the fate line. Where do you think he is right now?" encouraged her teacher.

Gabrielle peered closer, and traced the line with her fingertip. Using the distance from the heart line to the fate line and the Sauvage ratio, she picked out a spot. A spot near a tangle of wrinkles.

"He is in the fifth class," hinted Madame Sombrevoir. "And barely acceptable, I'll add." Gabrielle shifted her finger slightly. The tangle looked, with the light just right, a little like flames. It was also the spot she picked out. "Ah, you see it too, yes?" Gabrielle swallowed nervously. The meaning, if not the evidence, was clear: an accident with fire would soon befall Drago. A bad accident, for it to be on the fate line, and Gabrielle had a package in her handbag for the older boy containing, besides more Poot Powder, a Weasley Wildfire Door-Knocker, Deluxe. What could the Professor See?

"Any time you are ready to let go is good for me," said Drago impatiently.

"You, eh, might have an accident..." started Gabrielle tentatively.

"That's talent! An accident might happen - that is good to know. It's the very definition of the word." Drago pulled his hand back.

"Do not be afraid to give bad news, my pet. You must use the Gift," declared Madame Sombrevoir. She addressed Drago. "She has Seen a fiery accident in the near future. Be aware of candles and try to wear leather. I must be going now."

"Completely zinzin," muttered Drago, even while scrutinizing his own palm. Pepi-Z gave Gabrielle the all-clear signal.

"Do you, eh, still want it?" asked Gabrielle.

Drago gave her a confident grin. "Are you an idiot? Of course I want it - took months to save up enough. I'll just be careful. Anyway, I don't believe in that stuff. Come on, I've got... things to do.

v - v - v - v - v

Gabrielle walked beside the unicorn with her hand tangled in its silky, flowing mane. With the metal galoshes on, it was safest to be right next to Impy, where it was impossible to be accidentally poked by his horn. Gabrielle had returned to her friends in time to overhear her Divining Arts professor explain the intended ceremony to her roommate and companion. Out of curiosity, and probably being slightly rude, Gabrielle had asked about their plans and expressed some surprise, since, from what Gabrielle could gather, Lucretia was definitely just among the acceptable. Her roommate returned the slight, dismissing Gabrielle as being "hopelessly light". Gabrielle took offense, more for the term hopelessly than the combination, although she really had no idea why. Madame Sombrevoir then warned Lucretia not to underestimate the "dark aspect" surrounding Gabrielle. Lucretia followed that by asking if that was why Gabrielle cried out in the night. Gabrielle went wooden; she had nightmares, yes, but who would not after the events in Britain? Madame Sombrevoir just patted her head gently before leading the two black-clad figures away. Which left Gabrielle wondering what had been meant by either witch, and, again, what Madame Sombrevoir had Seen.

Someone, noticed Gabrielle, had managed a successful feather-weight charm. Allie now swung one basket casually while Dilly carried the other. The two girls bounded ahead, stopping to poke their wands into interesting knotholes and crevices, fearless in the bright sunshine and with Impy nearby. Monique and Tristen had joined hands even before they had left the formal garden. Gabrielle did not blame Tristen for wanting to be careful. Impudanae had galloped out from the edge of the woods almost immediately. The unicorn's large dark eyes had glared at the boy suspiciously, menacingly, but then Impy calmly turned to greeting Gabrielle, by way of gently chewing her hair. While initially held somewhat stiffly, the joined hands were now quite comfortable with each other, to the point that Monique and Tristen were presently bumping shoulders as they conversed. It made Gabrielle long for something more than letters. But, she reminded herself, he does write.

They reached the river, and Monique's chosen spot. It was a rocky outcrop that bent the river around it, with full sun but also near the shade of some trees where the river unbent. The river itself ran fast, and was still swollen from spring rains. It was never good for more than wading, but today even that looked questionable. Allie and Dilly dropped the baskets and slid off their robes, revealing very muggle T-shirts and what they told Gabrielle were Bermuda shorts. The two girls made their way to the bank of the river to look for weird muggle artifacts that sometimes turned up. Or kappas, which Dilly hoped they would find even though the fact that the creatures were not native to France made that possibility very remote.

Monique undid her robes, revealing a swimsuit. Gabrielle was glad to see it was a one-piece; sometimes Monique reminded Gabrielle of Fleur's maid of honor, Gisselle. She could try too hard. Monique pulled a blanket from one of the baskets and lay down in the sun she craved. Tristen wore a quidditch jersey from his dormitory's practice squad and denims. He sat down beside Monique, pretending to look at the river on the other side of her legs.

Gabrielle stayed in her robes, and led Impudanae over to the trees. She was not sure if Impy was completely safe to be near Tristen, and anyway it had been a while since she had groomed the unicorn. Gabrielle had learned how to do so when she was helping Impy recover from the... incident... with Tibault. Helping had really only meant holding onto the beard-like tuft of hair on his chin to keep him calm, while Professor Elevagre worked. Not much effort, castigated the a treacherous thought, after what had happened. Which was, added a more loyal thought, being decidedly harsh. Gabrielle pulled the brushes from her handbag, which set Impy's head bobbing. It was a good way to assuage her guilt, whether or not she should feel any. She set to work.

There was a shriek and a splash. Gabrielle ducked under Impy's neck to see the cause. Dilly had slipped while climbing over a log, and had tumbled over backwards into the river. It was something Allie found very funny. Dilly, on the other hand, was panicked. "Zut! My wand! Zut!" She struggled to regain her footing. Gabrielle could see the wand in the current. "Allie! Help me!" struggled Dilly. "Merde!"

Allie started to clamber back over the slick log. Gabrielle, who was downstream anyway, had already drawn her wand, her - real - wand. She broke into a run, then leaped into the air to land on one knee, simultaneously bringing her wand up crisply. "Accio Dilly's wand!"

There were benefits to having a father who worked in the Ministry, and to living in a large manor house. One was the ability to practice magic outside of school, undetected and unsupervised. Especially the dramatic pose. The spell worked, and the lost wand dragged itself from the water, bumping along the ground in a jerky series of hops. Gabrielle held her wand high and concentrated. Dilly's wand was already safe, but Gabrielle wanted it to come it to her magically.

It did not, but that was all right because Allie had come running over to thank Gabrielle, breaking the spell. It was less okay that Dilly did the same, since the girl had managed to completely soak herself, and her hug was cold and wet.

"That was incredible, Gigi! You saved my wand!" gushed Dilly.

"Ah no, Dilly. You are all wet," chastised Gabrielle.

"I slipped. Fell in." It was an unnecessary explanation.

"I mean you are getting me wet too."

"Oh, yes, you're right," said Dilly stepping back. "Sorry."

"She is such a klutz. I didn't know you knew that spell. Where did you learn it?" asked Allie.

"I am no such thing," protested Dilly. "Something grabbed me! It might have been a kappa."

"You said you, eh, slipped before," reminded Gabrielle.

"I slipped - because - something grabbed me."

"Uh Dilly? I don't think kappas live in water that shallow," doubted Allie.

"You don't know how deep it is," challenged Dilly.

"Eh, yes, we do. You fell in," explained Gabrielle. "It is no more than ten -"

"Under the log it might be - it would be deeper," suggested Dilly. "If I were a kappa lying in wait for prey, that's where I would be." That, thought Gabrielle, actually made sense. It may not have been a kappa, but something could be lurking there. Perhaps a grindylow.

"You should get out of those clothes, Dilly, so we can dry them," said Allie. "You'll come down with the Grippe if you don't."

"I'm not taking my clothes off in front of Tristen," declared Dilly.

"You are cold - your brain has stopped working. And we can see your nipples anyway," said Allie. "Go behind the trees; I'll bring you your robes."

"I don't want him to see my underwear."

"You want him to think that you, eh, do not wear any?" asked Gabrielle curiously. Dilly had not thought that through and had no answer, so she left for the trees with her arms crossed over her chest.

v - v - v - v - v

Gabrielle went back to grooming Impudanae. She was, she decided, very under-appreciated. She had saved the wand with, anyone would have to admit, a truly excellent bit of spellwork, even if it had cost her a small rip in her robes. She let Monique copy her essays. She had a unicorn if any of them wanted to make a boy hold their hand. These were all signs, determined Gabrielle, that she was not only a proper witch, but an above-average one. So it was not right that her friends always brought up minor mishaps from the past.

Monique and Allie had decided to make a fire to warm up Dilly and dry her clothes. The secret underwear was white with pink trimming, nothing, thought Gabrielle, out of the ordinary. Monique and Tristen headed into the woods together to find wood. They took much longer and came back with much less than one would expect. A stern stare was all it took for Monique to turn pink. Dilly was useless as well when it came to collecting wood. She moved like she was afraid that her robes would blow open.

Once enough wood was piled together, it was time for a fire spell. Gabrielle was good at conjuring flame. The old Floo connection at Delacour Manor had been her practice ground. It was not even a Floo anymore, really, just a ignored hearth. She could conjure weak flames and hot ones, as small as a candle's light or enough to fill a large bowl. Which was, she supposed, why her girlfriends were not letting her start the fire. Gabrielle tried to point out that this time the wood was stacked on bare rock, that the wet spring was very different from the dry, end of the summer, and that there was very little wind to whip up cinders. That had not been the case last time. But really, thought Gabrielle, the meadow had been full of dead grass anyway, the fact it was now ash had not changed much. Also, Gabrielle recalled reading somewhere that fire played an important role in renewing forests. It had only been a small section of forest in any case. She did not have a good idea of what a hectare looked like, let alone thirty of them, but it did not sound too large. Just because the trees in the forest were being grown for wands and brooms did not make it more her fault.

Of course, fire did not play any role in renewing the bowtruckle population. Really, the opposite. That was what Gabrielle regretted most about the incident. And, the howler from Maman. Gabrielle had to help Professor Elevagre tend the injured creatures as part of the detentions, and the little burned, broken bodies made her cry afterward. At least the poor bowtruckles were not angry with her. She did not even need to wear her leather gloves to handle them.

The Natural Arts class was also a favorite of Gabrielle's. She enjoyed the flying, and knew she would be better at it if the school's brooms worked correctly. The study of plants was a little dull, and often had too much dung associated with it, but the study of the local magical fauna was very interesting. Professor Elevagre, a slight, graying wizard who one would never guess had once been a chaser for the French National team, offered Gabrielle extra credit for helping with the various nervous beasts. That was important when it came to making up for tests of broom maneuverability - Gabrielle only passed if averaging of the runs was allowed. Mostly, helping the professor consisted of holding the beast's tether, and stroking the fur, feathers, or scales. She also helped with Madame Maxime's huge, flying Abraxan horses - she had the metal footwear already. There was too much dung involved with that as well, but Professor Elevagre was very, very grateful. There was still the danger of being squashed or, worse, licked, but it was worth it for the Outstanding.

Gabrielle looked at the black blister still marring Impudanae's stifle. She used to think of it as the top of the unicorn's rear leg, but Professor Elevagre was, well, a professor after all. It was a remnant of the trouble with Tibault. Had it gotten larger? Gabrielle could not be sure. Her professor could not be sure about it either. There was definite consternation that the older boy had been able to hit the unicorn with any magic, let alone something that left a lasting blemish. It was another reason that her role had gone mostly unexamined. There was nothing for it though, so Gabrielle opened the handbag again and dug around for the, hopefully, sealed jar of leeches.

Gabrielle did not really like this bit. It was not because the leeches were slimy and occasionally attached themselves to her hand as she pulled them from the jar. It was because, after feeding on the blister for a few minutes, the leeches, swollen and darker than they began, would drop off onto the ground. There they would writhe and twitch and then stop moving - forever. Gabrielle knew leeches were parasites, living off the essences of other creatures, but she still felt bad about their fate since they died because of her. She had asked Professor Elevagre about helping the suckered creatures. He had laughed and looked at her like she had lost her senses, saying the only people who wanted more leeches in the world were those who bred the ones for medicinal use. There were not many ways to comfort a leech.

v - v - v - v - v

Five leeches, one set of robes snagged on a horn, and one excellent example of the efficacy of the metal over-shoes later, Gabrielle was ready for some food. She noted with some smugness that the fire was less of a fire than a smolder. She was sure she could have had it roaring. Which was, of course, why she had not been allowed to help. But this smoky attempt was just pathetic. Even Impy, who, as a creature of the forest, should be naturally nervous about smoke, seemed unconcerned. He investigated the damp clothing propped on sticks next to the meager fire.

Gabrielle sat down in the spot that had opened up when Tristen, because of the unicorn's proximity, squashed over to Monique. "Eh, what is in the baskets?" She pulled one over and looked in. Melons. A lot of melons. Gabrielle thought it was a little early for them, which probably meant these melons were grown magically. And, in Gabrielle's opinion, such were never as good as those grown with sunlight.

"We've got bread, cheese, and jam," announced Monique. "And melons. Oh, and what the house-elves said was ham. It didn't feel like it though."

"Didn't feel like a ham? What do you mean, Nicky?" asked Allie.

"Well, it was weirdly small and light," replied Monique. "Might be charmed though. The elves called it Iberico."

"Oh no! Impy! Gigi, he's eating my clothes!" yelped Dilly. The unicorn lifted its head at the outburst, white with pink trimming hanging from his mouth.

Gabrielle put the lid back on the ceramic jar of jam with a clatter. "That is gross, Impudanae. Come on, spit it out." Gabrielle went over to him to pull the item from his mouth. She tugged, he tugged. Gabrielle then remembered an important safety tip, and put one hand on the single, spiral horn. It was vital to know where it was pointing.

"Don't stretch it," called Dilly.

"Yeah, she can barely fill it out now," added Allie, drawing a gasp of mortification from her friend.

"Let go!" ordered Gabrielle, and she gave the bra a sudden yank. Impy had already dropped his end, letting Gabrielle jerk the underwear to her. It snagged on the Bermuda shorts, and those came along too, followed by the sticks propping them up. The make-shift drying rack and clothes toppled over. The long buried magical flame suddenly had more fuel, and better fuel than the punky branches collected from the ground. In short, the shorts caught fire.

The unicorn lurched away from the flare-up with a jolt sideways. Gabrielle, caught off-guard and still holding the horn, was pulled off her feet. She landed on the now crackling fire. This was more dry fuel for the revived, young flames, and they were anxious to make their mark in the world. A large, black mark for preference. They would scorch the world! Sadly, though, they died along with their brief, fiery dreams, smothered under Gabrielle's sprawled form.

The fire was out, but the embers were still hot. Gabrielle rolled off the pile and flapped her robes, wondering if she was burning. Monique was at her side immediately, slapping Gabrielle in the chest for reasons that the girl had better explain later. Allie pulled the singed clothing out of the former fire and was stamping on them. Tristen rolled on the ground, laughing himself breathless. Gabrielle wondered if she could get Impy to kick him. A little. And perhaps Dilly too, since her version of help to smear the contents of a melon onto Gabrielle. Did no one, wondered Gabrielle, have a wand?

"I am fine, please, Dilly," said Gabrielle noticing that Dilly had reloaded. Allie held up the Bermuda shorts. There were only two holes that Gabrielle could see, but they were in spots that defeated the purpose of wearing them. "Eh, I am sorry," cringed Gabrielle.

v - v - v - v - v

Gabrielle lifted the smoked, salted haunch to its hanger where it would age. Her arms were still strong, but were starting to go wobbly with age. There was a new ache today; a twinge in the left arm to join the arthritis in her hands. Her stomach had not been right all day either. It was times like this that made Gabrielle want to talk to her son about the business again. Seville knew the meat; could tell by touch and smell when it was ready. But the new daughter-in-law... She was a thin stick of a girl, no good for the farm. She made three times what Gabrielle could, in a good year, working at something in an office in the city. She would not be satisfied with a life of turning ham for Seville. Would Gabrielle have to sell what had been in the family for generations? It was too much to worry about now. The pain was greater, and she needed to sit, to catch her breath. She should have hired more help, and damn the costs. Even if it was only for the lifting. Perhaps lying down would help - better lie down than fall down. Blessed Mary, did it hurt! Gabrielle fumbled for her pocket, wondering if she had brought that little phone Seville had wanted her to carry. It was... she was...

Gabrielle opened her eyes. Monique and Allie peered down at her. Was she lying on the ground? "Gabrielle! Are - you - all - right?" asked Monique loudly. She sounded very far away, and looked blurry, but Gabrielle nodded since she already feeling better. Dilly, who had claimed not to be angry about her clothes, squeezed a deluge of water from the T-shirt she had worn earlier. Gabrielle struggled to sit up.

"What's wrong with her? Is she choking? No surprise the way she tried to shove the whole sandwich into her mouth," said Tristen.

"I don't think so. It might be the Seer's trance," explained Monique, waving her hand to shush him. "Gabrielle can really - See - things. Madame Sombrevoir said so." Gabrielle, who finally had cleared the food in her mouth, was feeling a lot better and could see Tristen roll his eyes and heard him mutter something about a fraud. A movement above her made her look up.

"Wait Dilly! No, I'm - " started Gabrielle before more cold water from the river rained down. Tristen was laughing again. Gabrielle decided she did not really like him much.

"Does that help?" asked Dilly innocently.

"Oh, yes. Thank you. I, eh, did say that I was sorry, about before," replied Gabrielle.

"I was only trying to help," claimed Dilly, a mischievous smile belying her words.

"This is like that muggle show, on those picture boxes, the one about the hotel," laughed Tristen.

"You were all gray in the face, Gigi," said Allie seriously. "We thought you might faint."

Gabrielle looked the remains of her lunch in her hands. It was soggy from Dilly's aid, but Gabrielle did not think she could eat it anymore even if it had not been soaked. It had been a wonderful ham, very intense, but it was also the final ham the farmer, or whoever that vision had come from, had put up. Had she just Seen someone die? Is that what she had felt? "I, eh - Saw - the farmer. I think he was dying! This was his last ham."

Gabrielle made a mental note to herself. Announcing that one has Seen someone die or was in the process of dying is a sure way to spoil a picnic. Especially if the one dying had touched some of the food. In unspoken agreement, Gabrielle and the other girls had decided that they had had enough of the ham, even, for Allie, after a single bite. Tristen, on the other hand, said that it wasn't like the farmer had died on top of the meat or anything. Gabrielle suspected that the boy was not so dense as to not notice the chill that assertion caused, since he went on to claim that it was only respectful to eat what might be the dead man's masterwork. No one else agreed.

"Did anyone put their name in for Professor Festeller's contest?" tried Tristen, to change the subject. He swallowed down another slab of ham. "I hope I'm chosen. Exploring ancient magical sites is bound to be better than another summer learning Ministry memo spells with Father. Boring."

"We did," answered Allie for her friend also. "I wish it was two from each year so we both could go."

"I don't want to win at all," said Monique. "But I, um, could use the extra credit for entering."

"You entered too, right Gigi?" asked Dilly.

"Of course," said Gabrielle. Not, she added to herself. Fleur had been the school champion for Beauxbatons in the Tri-Wizard tournament, so Gabrielle had been asked, reminded, and badgered about entering until she had put her entry into that same Goblet of Fire - a completely blank entry. Even though it had made a dog's mess of Monique's essay, Gabrielle did not trust that quill George had sent to work. Or not work. Gabrielle had plans for the summer, and they did not include poking her wand around dusty ruins. She would go to Britain again. Papa was sure to say yes; that only took time. Fleur was pregnant, the oven she had so diligently preheated finally baking, and would - Well, she would not need Gabrielle's help, of course, but Gabrielle was certain Mrs. Weasley would not say no.

"You're going to be picked," declared Monique with confidence.

"Why her?" asked Tristen. "I don't remember that she was near the top of the class rankings when they were posted at Winter Break." Gabrielle tried to recall what Wheezes from George were left at the bottom of the handbag. Tristen was annoying.

"I think she's getting an Outstanding in Divining Arts and Natural Arts," said Monique.

"Outstanding? But I saw that tryout of hers," said Tristen in a confused tone. "The Blond Bludger. I never saw anyone fly like that. Although fly might not be -"

"The school's brooms don't work properly," interrupted Gabrielle. She thought she had quite good form, in between bouts of the broom malfunctioning. There were two that worked for almost thirty seconds in a row, almost very nearly enough for her to make it through Professor Elevagre's obstacle courses. Finding at least one of the pair was difficult though. It had been so tempting to use the handbag. Thinking of the handbag reminded her of something labeled Bogey Blaster, without any other description. It was time to see what it did. Gabrielle started rummaging in the handbag.

"She has an Outstanding in Alchemical Arts too," smirked Allie. "At least Cendrillon does..." Gabrielle's face tightened. That was certainly not her fault. Professor Pleinbouillois was very old and very insane. He repeatedly referred to her as his daughter, and doted on her constantly. Failed potions, which were distressingly frequent, were cleared away and another attempt allowed. The marks on written works were adjusted upward when he realized who he was handing them back to. Gabrielle suspected that the professor was not quite clear on reality and believed that she was using a pseudonym to hide her true identity, and that only he could see through it. She hated the special treatment, her suspicious classmates hated it, and Gabrielle hated it twice over because a small part of her was glad for the reduced effort required. It gave her more time for Wand Arts.

"What do you mean?" asked Tristen.

Gabrielle found it best to say nothing at these times. What could she say? Nothing could explain the professor's insane behavior unless her being part Veela was included, and then people would stop listening and jump to the wrong conclusion. Monique did not refrain. "It means nothing, and she did nothing anyway," declared the girl loyally. "I know it'll be her. Fleur was the Tri-Wizard champion for us, you know."

"I knew that. I saved all the pict- uh, articles. Why should that matter?" Found it, thought Gabrielle, trying not to grin. Or cackle. She cupped the small packet in her hand. No one appeared to notice.

"Gabrielle is Fleur's lit- that is, younger sister." Okay, thought Gabrielle, Monique can still copy off me if she needs to.

Tristen knitted his brows. "She is?" But, decided Gabrielle to herself, Tristen had to go. She put her hands in her lap to open the Wheeze as discreetly as possible, not looking down at all.

Gabrielle received some help in diverting attention from Allie. "You're as bad Dilly here! How many Delacours have you come across?"

"What? Hey!" complained Dilly. "I knew she had a sister. I'm not the one covered in melon, either." Gabrielle glanced down quickly. She held two bright green objects, like beans. If she was not hiding something, she would have argued about what the melon coating implied.

"She could have been a cousin. They don't look much alike," said Tristen defensively. That produced a female moment of shared of disbelief. Lithe in body, petite in stature, silvery blond hair, blue eyes - yes, thought Gabrielle, how could anyone think she and Fleur were siblings? A second thought noted that Fleur would say shapeless, scrawny, colorless, and watery. But with Fleur so far away, Gabrielle did not listen much.

Gabrielle wondered if Tristen would fall for a direct approach. She could try smiling her best, and then ask him to eat the green bean shapes. It would probably work on someone like Ron if she was at the Burrow. Her other technique of discovering what new or unmarked Wheezes did, offering the victim's current order as credit for the next - George's suggestion - had worked well enough until she had come across Fred's Fish Floss. It had sounded completely gross, but the Wheeze was the color of and smelled just like candy floss mashed down into an oval lozenge. Silvain had taken the trade, and moments later disappeared in a cloud of smoke which, when it cleared, revealed a fish flopping on the floor with markings like the school uniform. Some kind of trout, remembered Gabrielle. It even had the shape of his glasses around its bulging eyes. And it - was - a fish, which needed water to breath. There had not been many choices, and the girl's lavatory had been right there...

A large white, equine head suddenly loomed as she recalled the uproar caused by Silvain's just as sudden return to normal form. He had required some extrication from the, eh, tight quarters. Gabrielle thought she was dead, expelled, that he would reveal her role in what had happened. Instead, Silvain foisted the blame onto Drago. In return, Gabrielle wheedled Silvain several tins of Poot Powder from George. That meant Drago only blacked one of his eyes.

Gabrielle grasped Impudanae's horn absently. The unicorn was licking the rescue melon from her robes, leaving a slick film of saliva in exchange. Gabrielle knew she would have to take the robes to the laundry directly. Or burn them. Impy dropped his head lower, into her lap, and Gabrielle pushed his horn away. That is really too much, she thought. Then she realized what his objective had truly been. The Wheeze was gone. Would it make him sick? "Impy!" cried Gabrielle. "Don't swallow it, please!"

"He's not eating my underwear again, is he?" asked Dilly. Gabrielle wrestled with the unicorn's thick, rubbery lips, trying to pry open his jaws before the Wheeze disappeared down his gullet. She had no fear of the large, tombstone teeth.

"No. It is something else," answered Gabrielle. Abruptly, the unicorn reared its head, shaking it back and forth, and began snorting. "Impy, no!" wailed Gabrielle. She was too late, the Wheeze was affecting him, and it was her fault he was suffering. Again. Impy's obvious distress alarmed her, and made her eyes tingle as tears welled up. Gabrielle got to her feet to try and calm the huge animal before anyone got trampled, and to get him to Professor Elevagre quickly. Impy sneezed.

It started at his hind legs, which buckled slightly even as the heavy neck raised his head. His front legs splayed out to the sides and his tongue lolled. Gabrielle thought he would collapse right there, but all the legs reversed direction at once and the unicorn's head snapped down in a huge spasm of a sneeze. A great shower of green mucus sprayed out, coating Gabrielle's face and chest. Squelchy bits hit her neck. She might have retched right then, but Impy's horn ended its downward arc right on the top of her head.

This time Gabrielle's legs did the buckling, and she fell to her knees. Impy sneezed again. Dilly shrieked in horror. Allie tried to cover the both of them with the blanket, spilling the food and drink. Gabrielle clasped her hands over her head in pain; they stuck to her hair. Another sneeze, and a rain of green. Monique, hindered by Tristen's grip on her, tried to help Gabrielle to her feet. Gabrielle's view of the world was spinning, so she staggered while Monique held her up. The unicorn sneezed violently, thrashing its head so mucus flew in gruesome ribbons. Its horn flashed like a sword. The picnic was over.


	3. I Don't Want to Go

Chapter Three - I Don't Want to Go

One month earlier, in June.

Gabrielle stared intently at her notes on the desk in front of her, ignoring the stares she expected her fellow classmates would be giving her, and doing her best to ignore the current object of her ire: Professor Festeller. Except, of course, to write down what he was saying, since the end of the term was coming up. Although, she had considered all but quitting the course entirely. Gabrielle thought that perhaps if she failed the course then she would not be included on the Professor's stupid expedition. But she knew that that would not sit well with Maman, which would mean that even if she did not go to wherever with the Professor, she would also not get to go to Britain to see George.

It was not fair at all, thought Gabrielle for the hundredth time. The entry had been blank! Her name had not gone into the Goblet, so it should not have come out. Gabrielle would have protested, but her friends had seen her put the entry in, had insisted on it. How could she deny entering now without looking ridiculous? This, decided Gabrielle again, was a problem that Papa could solve. He could have the Ministry in Paris ban stupid expeditions from ever taking place.

Actually, thought Gabrielle, knitting her brows, how did she really know her name had not been put into the Goblet? Monique had been so certain she would be selected - perhaps it was her 'friend' who had truly entered her name. More than once? Well, decided Gabrielle, if that is the case then Monique will have to make it through Wand Arts without her help. That would mean no more time for Tristen - no, it was Jakob now. Or was it back to Royden?

Gabrielle would have suspected her enemies, but she did not think she really had any. Except the potential enemy that was Granecole. When he regained consciousness - if, corrected a worried second thought, which made her stomach churn - then he would definitely be her enemy. Assuming that he figured out not just to blame Impy. Even if he did not, he would still be, since she would have to protect the unicorn. Somehow.

When Fleur was at school, remembered Gabrielle, she had, of course, been very popular, like a celebrity; like a singer from the Wizarding Wireless Network. Her sister had had actual friends, followers hoping to share in the attention, several creepy worshipers - and a good number of detractors. The last group were, of course, uniformly female. The boys who were spurned did not blame Fleur, only themselves or their rivals.

Maman had been concerned that Gabrielle would be lonely, since she was not like Fleur. But Gabrielle found herself somewhat popular as well, for different reasons. The first few weeks had been one of craned necks and inquisitive stares, because she was part Veela, but that stopped when the other students decided that she was not, perhaps, Veela enough. Gabrielle did not mind such a turn. She already had several friends in her dormitory, and made more because she actually knew Harry Potter. The, admittedly, theoretical knowledge from Grandmere's little manual on how to be inappropriate even made her a confidant of sorts. Gabrielle was well-known among the male population also. That was definitely - not - because of the book, but rather because she was the conduit to the Weasley twins. While boys did not clamor after her like they would if she were Fleur, it was of no concern to Gabrielle. So she did not have jealous detractors as a result. In any case, her heart belonged to George. She hoped the feeling was mutual; it was hard to tell from the letters. Still, he does write.

George, Gabrielle suddenly realized, could be the issue. Perhaps she did have detractors after all. Gabrielle recalled the Halloween dance and the covetous stares from the girls in the upper classes. They might be planning on traveling to Britain themselves, and needed her out of the way! She would have to warn George that, that - that what? That attractive young women, eligible for marriage, or even shagging, were coming for him? How would one put that into a sentence that would not sound pathetic, or cause much eye-rolling?

There were, considered Gabrielle, a lot of strict rules about marriage. The rules about shagging were a lot more flexible, if any of the dorm gossip was at all true. Gabrielle had, in starts and stops, reached puberty. That meant she was definitely a woman, not a girl. A peeved thought noted that there was still depressingly little outward evidence of this important transition. Not that it would have mattered in the end, but now she wondered if, at Halloween, she should have schemed for a little more than just a kiss. She could not even imagine managing to ask outright though. Grandmere's little book covered relatively ordinary flirting, unmentionable and, in several cases, nauseating acts, and magical rituals. Gabrielle had always wondered if there was a section missing, since it was not at all helpful in going from flirting to, to... the rest. Any ploys there would be useful. Gabrielle could still remember the way George's arms had felt around her even now, and imagined that same feeling sliding down -

"Mademoiselle Delacour? This is most pertinent, yes, to your summer," called Professor Festeller. "Do, please, pay attention." Gabrielle looked up with a start, aware that she had been hugging herself. "Can anyone tell me what this is?" He held up an egg-timer that dangled from a thin gold chain.

It was not an egg-timer, of course. Gabrielle knew enough not to blurt out that; she wished Dilly had also. Her friend was often mopey as of late, and prone to inexplicable mood swings. Such as the one under way now - Gabrielle could see her lip quivering even before the burst of laughter from the rest of the class ended. Allie gave Dilly a reassuring nudge with an elbow. Gabrielle consulted at her notes. The Accu-Scribe quill George had sent was very useful, provided she paid at least scant attention. The variations on Gabrielle Jeanne Weasley she had written absently were of no help.

"This is a time-turner, a replica of one, yes," explained the professor. "It is unfortunate, yes, but the only known collection of these ancient and delicate devices in Europe, yes, was destroyed." Gabrielle noticed that Professor Festeller always became quite exercised whenever he lectured about some historical object that had been lost. She wondered if he thought history was less real if there was not something to hold. Certainly the glass cases that lined the walls of the classroom were a testament to his fascination with old junk. It was a lucky thing for him that his classroom had not been in the Stone tower.

While the professor lectured excitedly, yes, about the history of time-turners, yes, and their, yes, unpredictable consequences, yes, Gabrielle wondered about Dilly. Her emotionality was possibly a sign of puberty as well, but Gabrielle supposed it was more likely because Allie was obsessing about Piers. Piers was in the fifth class, a transferee from Durmstrang, and a promising chaser good enough already to make the reserve squad. As far as Gabrielle knew, Allie had never even spoken to Piers, but now spent her time learning and reciting trivia about him - mostly to Dilly. If anything, the two girls spent even more time together than before, except now Dilly complained that she was sure Allie was always thinking of Piers. Gabrielle did not know what to say to that.

Gabrielle checked her notes. She certainly did not want ten centimeters of parchment on which of the two girls had lost their senses. The time-turners used the Sands of Time worn from the Rock of Ages, initially discovered by the first Master of Time. There, thought Gabrielle, was an ego. The whole thing sounded very dubious. The first Master of Time was killed by the second Master of Time, who was then defeated by the first Master of Time because, well, he controlled Time. The whole series repeated via a complicated series of paradoxes, which Gabrielle hoped would not be part of the exam, until the so-called Masters of Time tried to travel less than a grain's worth. They vanished without trace, according to various important scrolls the names of which she would memorize later, because they were things and Professor Festeller liked things. One had to wonder, mused Gabrielle, how these accounts came about. The way she imagined it, the two wizards started dueling, then, just as one fell, the room started filling up with duplicates until they all suddenly disappeared in a big explosion. So how did this long blow-by-blow account come about?

"The expedition this season, yes, will locate and excavate, yes, the ancient Tower of Caszase. That is where the first Master of Time, yes, ruled and fought the second Master of Time," described Professor Festeller with no small excitement. Gabrielle did not like the sound of that. Wasting a summer looking around dusty and dirty ruins was bad enough; this sounded dusty, dirty, and like a lot of work. "We will recover artifacts, yes, related to time-turners, and gather evidence of the duel between the Masters." Like, wondered Gabrielle, her nose wrinkling in disgust, body parts? Gross.

The class ended a little late due to the professor's enthusiasm for the summer's trip. All Gabrielle determined was that any place called a hinterland was unlikely to have a convenient International Owl Post Office. Allie tore from the room, leaving Dilly still packing up and looking very hurt. Gabrielle knew what Allie was doing. She was racing down to the quadrangle to see if she could spot Piers. According to Allie's very detailed schedule, he would be coming from the tent classrooms, heading for the Glass tower. Gabrielle could not see what Allie was hoping for; all it did was leave Gabrielle with an unhappy Dilly to listen to.

The tent classrooms were set up in the quadrangle, to make up for the ones lost when the Stone tower fell. Gabrielle, while safely in her bed when the disaster occurred, knew exactly what had happened. That was because the professors and the Ministry teams found that idiot Drago and his accomplice Clodeau under the wreckage, all but cooked completely through by the Abraxans' burning single malt whiskey they were after. Had she not warned him? The two were still totally covered in bandages even now as Monsieur Maltranchier tried to regrow their skin, and once a week some section of their bodies had the bones regrown. Gabrielle suspected that their lips had yet to heal, since she had not been expelled. She had visited Drago once to convince him to say nothing, even ingesting Poot Powder to get on his good side, but the screams of agony the muffled laughter had become quickly ended the meeting.

The most peculiar thing was that Madame Maxime was not overly upset with the two, though she might have considered their current condition punishment enough. The Headmistress was definitely more concerned about her flying horses doing without their high-powered fuel than the collapse of the tower. Professor Festeller was quite upset, because the tower had been a thing with a history, and now it was a large pile of broken stone. At the other end of the wand, though, he was able to demonstrate the techniques used during his stupid expeditions, and lectured at length about the tool marks and glyphs he found on the rubble. Gabrielle knew that the bit about the heartstone, which had cracked, was sure to be on the exam. The leading theory was that the two boys had blown up a wall, which had actually been the poorly protected heartstone, and that led to the failure of the magic and the collapse. There were no guesses yet as to what had been done to cause the explosion, or whom the two wizards had gotten it from. It did make one wonder about how muggle buildings stayed up, though. Many were even taller than any of the towers.

This disaster, and the sudden, unexplained absence of Hugette, began the rumor of the Jinx. Gabrielle knew nothing of Hugette except that she was in the third class, but she was certain that the two boys had needed no powerful Jinx to get into trouble. All three had been chosen by the Goblet, and now at least two were definitely not going to make the trip.

"Are you going back to the dorm, Gigi?" asked Dilly hopefully.

"Eh, no. I am going to the stables now," said Gabrielle. Dilly looked crestfallen. "You could, eh, come with me. Professor Elevagre will not mind. If, eh, you stay way back, of course."

"No, that's all right," sighed Dilly. "It stinks down there."

Well, yes, thought Gabrielle, it would, given the Abraxans' size and diet, but she did not have to put it so plainly. Gabrielle tried again. "We could, eh, take the long way? Impy will come, I'm sure." The appearance of the unicorn always cheered up Monique.

"I'll just go back to the room. I'm a little tired," said Dilly.

Gabrielle watched her go. If this had been Monique, then Gabrielle would have been very sure that her friend had spotted whomever was hot this week walking with another girl. Gabrielle decided that she had best ask the resident prefect to try a cheering charm on Dilly. Or perhaps Dilly could just choose another player on Piers' squad, so she could share Allie's obsession. The cheering charm was more likely to work; Dilly rarely talked to boys.

v - v - v - v - v

Gabrielle leaned into the heavy door of the stable's tack room to push it open, and slipped inside. It did stink. The room was not as gloomy as it normally was because of the candles, their flickering light gleaming from the polished leather, brass, and silver hung from the walls. The candles also threw their yellow light onto the bleeding wounds of a wizard. "Professor! Oh mon Dieu! Should I get help?" cried a surprised Gabrielle.

Professor Elevagre grunted ruefully. "There is no help for this insanity."

"Eh, what?"

"I'll be fine," claimed the professor. A grimace and a hiss of pain seemed to refute that when the gauze, wrapping itself up his arm like a fabric snake, tightened into a knot. "Could you please bring me the other roll?" he asked calmly, more calmly than Gabrielle would have if she had been dripping like that.

The door to the tack room opened crisply, and the flames on the candles guttered. "Ah. The one have been looking for," said Madame Maxime severely. She was dressed in elegantly stern, and voluminous, robes; robes for - official - business. Gabrielle went white - they had found lips for Drago and forced him to talk! This was the moment of reckoning, of doom. Maman would surely step from behind the bulk of the Headmistress and ground her forever. "My goodness man, what has happened to you?"

"The newborn griffin is, uhn, male," said Elevagre as he staunched more of the bleeding. "The gauze, please," he reminded Gabrielle through clenched teeth.

"This is unfortunate timing. I need Montaigne and the sulky," said Madame Maxime, looking down at her robes uncertainly.

"It will just take a moment. Mademoiselle Delacour, go and put the bridle on Montaigne please." Gabrielle moved quickly to comply after passing him the rolled bandages. It was best to get away from the attention of the headmistress. The bridle was huge, and overflowed her arms with straps and cinches.

Gabrielle was at the doorway that led to the stalls when Madame Maxime ordered her to stay. The witch rounded on the Natural Arts professor. "Have you gone mad my dear Professor? They will... They need special handling."

"She will be fine, Headmistress," replied the wounded wizard. The white gauze was turning red. "Please, continue," he said, waving Gabrielle on. The Abraxans began whinnying and neighing on the other side of the doorway.

"Stop! They will kill her. Montaigne has eaten larger creatures by accident." As if to emphasize her point, the wall shook with a boom. The vibration rattled the tack on the walls.

"They can smell her. Mademoiselle - Delacour - will have to calm them before they kick the down the stalls," explained Elevagre. Excuse me, thought an aggrieved Gabrielle, I do not smell. It would be hard to imagine being allowed to go to classes if one could be noticed over the stable's odor. The animals could simply see her as she stood at the threshold. She did not want to attract attention to herself by correcting him, though. The tack room shook again as hooves crashed.

"I simply can not allow a mere student, in the sixth class no less, to - Oh. Yes - yes. Possibly."

"Lead Montaigne out to the rear yard, please. I'll have the sulky ready," requested Elevagre.

"Eh, yes, Professor," said Gabrielle. She juggled the leather in her arms so she would not embarrass herself by tripping on dragging straps, and hurried forward. Inside the sound of the excited animals was much louder; they were definitely more rambunctious than normal. Perhaps they were all expecting to go out? Gabrielle brought the bridle over to Montaigne's stall, then went to find the ladder. It was, she had learned, important to greet them in the proper order. At least for the first five or six. After that, the rank of which was more dominant over another was too difficult to keep up with, and the friction between the animals if she got it wrong was not so vicious. She kept track by making a mark next to their stalls with her wand; the symbols seemed to mean nothing to the animals. Montaigne went first, always.

The ladder was necessary because Montaigne was very much in keeping with his namesake. An ordinary horse was fourteen hands tall. The unicorn Impudanae was as tall as the biggest breed of horse at nineteen hands. Montaigne towered at thirty-four hands. Gabrielle had to climb up the ladder to rub his nose and scratch his ears. She had to go up the ladder, down the ladder, and move the ladder for each of the Abraxans. There was a ladder that could walk by itself, but it always closed up when Gabrielle went to climb it, and no amount of threats would make it cooperate. The greetings took a while. It did not need to take so long, but the aerial horses would not lower their heads for her. Which was, thought Gabrielle, a little rude. After all, the stable was their home and she was really a kind of guest. The iron galoshes did not make the effort go any faster.

Gabrielle pulled the ladder back to Montaigne's stall. "Madame Maxime is here," she told the huge, winged palomino as she worked the heavy bolts loose that held the stall's gate shut. "She is taking the, eh, sulky out. That is good, yes?" Sulky was a good way to describe Dilly, thought Gabrielle.

The massive head above Gabrielle bobbed and snorted. It might have meant yes, thought Gabrielle, but he did that a lot no matter what. "Madame Maxime thought you would, eh, eat me," she added. Gabrielle climbed up the ladder again with the tangle of the bridle. Montaigne gave her a long look with a fiery red eye. "Eh, you will open your mouth?" She held the massive bit out.

Holding the bridle always made it look more confusing than it was once it was fitted around around something horse-shaped, thought Gabrielle. She adjusted the thick leather straps with a tug, then started down the ladder. Montaigne lashed out with his rear hoof, resulting in a resounding crash that echoed among the stable's high rafters. Gabrielle froze. Montaigne kicked again, then shuffled forward to lean against the stall. Oh yes, remembered Gabrielle. I forgot the scratching. The Abraxans, if they were going into the tethers, expected to be scratched on their backs, just between the wings. They were quite spoiled. There was a lot of back to them too; it spread like a table. Gabrielle could have climbed onto the animal, but it was a long way down.

Gabrielle moved the ladder out of the way and pushed the gate open. When she was first asked to help in the stable, she had assumed that it was part of the detentions for the small, very minor forest fire. Small, minor, and accidental forest fire. She had resigned herself to mucking out the stalls while hoping to breathe through her ears. Instead, Professor Elevagre did the mucking while Gabrielle simply led each of the huge animals in turn out to the exercise yard. The high netting, like a spider web bubble over the enclosure, let them stretch their wings a little. The professor claimed that the chore was his favorite part; a sort of recap of his career. Gabrielle did not ask about that. Dragging the ladder all over the stable was the hardest work she had to do. She wondered if Professor Elevagre was affected by her being part Veela. He never said anything strange - at least strange involving her. It was possible he was insane like her Alchemical Arts professor, but at least he remembered who she was.

Gabrielle took the reins and started to lead Montaigne out. There was no point in tugging at the reins; the Abraxans might follow her, but they did it at their own pace. The huge creature stopped now, and stretched out his wings.

"There is not enough space for flying. You know this," warned Gabrielle. She walked back to the Abraxan. The professor had taught her a way to trick their instincts. One walked up to them, turned one's back, and walked away. Mostly, they would follow again.

This time Montaigne did not follow, but, when Gabrielle turned away, dipped his muzzle to her neck. Gabrielle scrunched up her shoulders. If there was one thing she could do without, it was the licks. Montaigne's breath, and saliva, gave a fair hint to the vile reactions going on in his gut. Abraxans had to extract every calorie of energy from their food, storing it in oil-rich tissues. They stank like a muggle petrol station.

Gabrielle batted at Montaigne's head, a symbolic gesture as she could no more move it than pull the animal with the reins. She felt the dreaded tongue between her shoulder blades; another visit to the laundry elves would be needed. The flying horse's great lips tugged at her robes. "Stop that Montaigne," complained Gabrielle. Montaigne pushed her hard, and something a lot stronger closed on her robes. "Montaigne! No!" One should never, came a late second thought, suggest that one could be eaten. The beast jerked its head up. Gabrielle was tossed upward, arms flailing, and landed with a loud clang because of the metal boots. She was certain she had screamed. Surely Professor Elevagre would have heard. Unless, worried Gabrielle, he and the headmistress were out in the rear yard already. They would never hear her through the thick walls. Montaigne, happy with his grip, easily raised his head, lifting a protesting Gabrielle into the air.

Gabrielle gave up and hung limply, dangling from the animal's mouth about two meters in the air. She gave up struggling, not being unhappy. "This is not very, eh, nice, you know. It is not funny either." Montaigne made his way along the stalls as if showing off his prize. "Eh, Professor Elevagre will be angry," she warned. The massive horse, folding in his wings, headed for the tack room. "No. To the yard! You will not fit!"

He did not fit, and had to lower his neck to barely poke his head in. As Gabrielle had feared, the professor and headmistress were already waiting outside. Part of Gabrielle was glad, though. This was not a very dignified position. Madame Maxime would not be impressed, Professor Elevagre would get into trouble, and her extra credit and the Outstanding would be gone. This was also, Gabrielle realized, a tactical mistake by Montaigne. She grabbed the edge of the doorway. "Ha! Now you will let go," she declared. And when he does, planned Gabrielle, she would get to the handbag, and her wand. Magic would not, mostly, affect the winged horse any more than it would affect Impudanae. At least magic - she - could do, but this was no time to worry about Tibault Granecole. Magic could affect things around the creature though. She would... transfigure a wooden box into something kettle-ish and throw it at Montaigne. Using her real wand, Gabrielle expected she might even manage a spout that actually stuck out. It would at least surprise him, and make her feel less trod upon.

That assumed that Gabrielle would win the contest between elephantine horse, robes, and her grip on the woodwork. She did not, because Montaigne cheated and did not just pull but also jerked her up and down. Gabrielle went back to hanging unhappily from his muzzle. She could feel his slobber soaking her robes and running down her back. There will be consequences for this stupidity, vowed Gabrielle. She would, would... do something. That something would not include a Bogey Blaster, though.

Montaigne ambled back along the stalls past the other Abraxans. Gabrielle rather suspected the head bobbing and low nickering was their way of laughing at her. Her captor was now headed for the rear yard, where the headmistress and her professor were probably deciding on whether to try and recover her bones or not. This situation was, suspected Gabrielle, likely to cause a scene. Since she was not hurt, yet, and there had been no damage, yet, Gabrielle held out hope that Maman would not be informed.

Thinking of the situation like that had given Gabrielle an idea. She realized that she had been asked to calm the Abraxans, put a bridle on Montaigne, and lead him out. Technically, she was about to accomplish those tasks. While it was more traditional to be walking, she was, in fact, in front of Montaigne, and therefore was leading him. Just because her robes were riding up did not mean that she was not in control. Gabrielle decided that if she tried to act like this was a new, but otherwise quite normal technique, there would be less commotion. She reached behind her back to find the reins. Holding the leather as if a more well-behaved horse was being led, Gabrielle put on her best smile just as girl and beast passed through the towering, open doors to the yard. Madame Maxine was tucking a parcel into the sulky and looked up in alarm. Professor Elevagre jumped up quickly, then more slowly, because of the bandages on his wounds, drew his wand. "Eh, here is Montaigne, sir. And madame," said Gabrielle, trying to seem proud of his new trick. Slobber soaked the back of her robes, and tickled as it ran down. She could feel the huge animal tense up. Gabrielle suspected that Professor Elevagre was not as patient as she was, and knew a lot more spells.

Madame Maxime came around the sulky in a rush. "Oh good grief, child! What are you doing? Come down immediately." The Abraxan sidled nervously away from the tall witch. He seemed a normal horse next to her. Except with wings, which he flared out.

"Wait, Headmistress, please. Let's get him into the tethers first," suggested the Natural Arts professor. "Mademoiselle Delacour, if you would?"

"Oh, eh, yes. Of course," answered Gabrielle, although she was not very sure how she was to actually have Montaigne do anything that he had not planned on doing anyway. Still, thought Gabrielle, she had to try. "Eh, Montaigne?" The flying horse responded with a head shake that set her swinging. Was that a rip she heard? "You will pull the, eh, sulky... which is over there," gestured Gabrielle. She gave the reins a pull in the general direction. Montaigne was definitely agitated, and was breathing more rapidly - into her hair. She would probably have to wash it twice.

It was difficult to steer the reluctant Montaigne to the front of the sulky. He kept circling it, which Gabrielle found frustrating. After all, thought Gabrielle, it was not as if he had never seen it before. Perhaps he expected to get in trouble once he put her down. It was frustrating, and, because Madame Maxime kept staring at her, very embarrassing. It was hard to keep smiling confidently while turning red. Thankfully, the professor was there to shift the small carriage with his wand. Horse do not like to walk backwards; Abraxans just will not move backwards.

Once the sulky was harnessed to Montaigne, he started to calm a little. It seemed to Gabrielle, though, that the creature intended to take her with him. The idea was appealing - if she were in the sulky. As it was right now, Gabrielle could not see how he would be able to breathe well enough to fly. He would have to open his mouth, and she would fall. Two meters was a sprain; two hundred meters was very near death. She sighed and, turning her head away from where the headmistress might hear, began to plead with Montaigne in a whisper to let her down. Gently.


	4. Correspondence 'Course

Chapter Four - Correspondence 'Course

It was morning, and Gabrielle was indulging in a small cup of very strong coffee. In the designated area, of course, since there had been so many complaints. She had nearly finished the beverage when the owls swept into the Dining Hall. The post was early again, so Gabrielle tried to swallow down the remaining coffee. It was nearly impossible. The house-elf version of strong coffee was barely runny. The house-elf who made the coffee worked behind a curved, shiny metal table beneath the large brass flowers that provided the extra ventilation needed. There were only a dozen or so students who took advantage of the new coffee service - the rest walked by with their noses held. The offering was part of some modernization program by Madame Maxime. Gabrielle wondered if more students would try the service if proper muggle coffee was used, which made her think of Gaston and his room of beans. At the start of the year, the little cups would appear on the table in a sparkling instant, but there was no choice. Then a house-elf began, eh, manning the little station. That had not gone well at first. It was difficult to enjoy a beverage prepared by a sweaty elf prone to nervous vomiting. Gabrielle, given her experiences at the Weasley household, expected that was due to his disguise. The house-elf wore a black shirt and black trousers, with a green apron. The clothes, no, the disguise was well-fitted. It was too bad the elf's shape was ill-fitted. Now, however, the house-elf was quite all right. He did suffer from panicked hiccups if one left a gratuity. If only the espresso was not like custard.

Gabrielle was halfway to her seat when a descending owl dropped straight toward her. In its talons was a bright red letter - a howler. Gabrielle stopped short. What, her mind raced, had Maman learned of now? It could not be about Montaigne - Madame Maxime had not said anything about it to her. The headmistress had stared at her quite hard, it was true, until Gabrielle had almost run back to the stalls, but there had been no punishments. If it was about the Wheezes - well, Gabrielle always expected she would be told she was being expelled first. She had nearly cut off Nelle's thumb in Alchemical Arts, but that had been a complete accident and Nelle was almost through being mad at her. The girl just made a point of sitting on the opposite corner of a table from Gabrielle. In any case that had been almost a week ago.

It might not be from Maman, suggested a second thought. Was there not, continued the thought nastily, something Papa would be very upset over? Yes, admitted Gabrielle to herself. She had had a boy, George, visit her at school, without telling either parent. But that had been ages ago. The traitorous thought asked, so? It only mattered when Papa found out.

The owl was quite close now. It was useless to try and dodge; the owls had really good aim. Gabrielle just wished she was at her seat with sympathetic Monique, rather than out in the open, where she would have to trudge back to her seat past curious stares and the laughing caused by the knowledge it was not for them.

The howler, to a relief that nearly dropped her to her knees, was not intended for Gabrielle. The owl flew just over her head, releasing its load a moment before wheeling away back toward the wide, open transoms. The red letter skipped off the table and hit Angie, short for Berangaria, in the chest. She was a very nice girl, a little too round in the face and stomach, and she burst into tears even before the letter exploded. Gabrielle came as close to running as she dared to get back to her seat. There was a protocol here. Everyone would likely hear the howler, but one should not be seen trying to listen.

There was mail for Gabrielle also. As soon as she took a seat at the table, the Hall still echoing from the exhausted howler, two owls that had been circling the Dining Hall swooped in. Two small flat, square packages and a letter skittered to a stop in front of her. She knew, from the sounds of dozens of chairs sliding, that numerous eyes were striving to see. It was - so - annoying. One of the boxes undoubtedly contained their orders, but, griped Gabrielle to herself, did they have to make it so obvious that she was involved? Why not just stand up, point, and say, "She's the reason dorm seven smells like it does, Headmistress." Or worse, "Professor, I know what blew up the Stone tower."

The letter was from George. Gabrielle recognized the handwriting, the fact it was not addressed to Gigi, and, well, he does write. She slipped it into a robe pocket as quickly and discreetly as possible. Which, unfortunately, signaled its contents as clearly as if she had read it aloud. "It's a letter from her George," blurted Monique. "Let's see it!"

"Stop it, Monique," hissed Gabrielle. Her friend was playfully pulling at her robes, trying to squirm a hand into the pocket. Which she did every single time. Gabrielle never shared what was in the letters with anyone, which only made them all the more curious. Gabrielle suspected her girlfriends would be disappointed with what was in the letters, or rather, what was not in them. He does write, Gabrielle reminded herself. That was at least a start, one that she had wanted to build on over the coming summer.

"Can I open one of the packages? I never get a package," complained Dilly. As she was eating her mother's fresh-baked Langues de Chat from an envelope big enough to hide behind, Gabrielle ignored her. "Want one Allie? Allie?" offered Dilly. Her friend looked to be counting something in a small diary, and did not acknowledge the offer. The sums seemed to be off.

"Piers is having the omelet. He shouldn't be having that," said Allie, a vague concern entering her voice. Dilly slumped.

"Eh, what?" asked Gabrielle. She had had the omelet; there had been nothing wrong with it.

"She keeps track of what he eats," explained Dilly resignedly.

"Umm..." started Monique. That was about all that could really be said, though, so there was quiet. Gabrielle loosened the wrapping on one of the packages. She was expecting a special one from Fred.

"George is on time," noted Allie, sounding disappointed. By that, wondered Gabrielle, or the rogue egg-eating?

"What do you mean by that?" asked Gabrielle. The first box did have the latest orders. She could see the invoice was folded on top. So it must be the second box, concluded Gabrielle. She peeled the wrapping a little.

"Didn't you know? He writes three days after the full moon. More or less, there's no way to account for the availability of owls and - oh!" Gabrielle had lifted the lid of the second box a little, and now sat with her face dripping stinksap. Yes, steamed Gabrielle, definitely from Fred.

v - v - v - v - v

"Severus," came the nasally tones of the latest throat the Dark Lord used. "Sit. Have some tea." An offer that was as much a command. Severus Snape took the seat indicated. The wizard he obeyed appeared to be a mere decade out of school, with the flowing hair of one trying to follow fashion but also with the manner of one trying to blend in, so as not to be noticed. At least formerly; now sharp eyes glared out from the weak-chinned face.

"Thank you, my lord," replied Severus. There was little doubt that the Dark Lord, and his latest vessel, were recovering from the disaster. Why the nebbish young wizard had been allowed to attend at the cemetery was a mystery, but perhaps the Dark Lord had foreseen his... utility.

"Has the Potter boy made contact with you?" The mind and eyes were supremely confident, but not, noted Snape, the rest of the body. From the neck down, the young wizard looked ready to flee.

"No, my lord. He is as thick as porridge, with a head like an empty cauldron," complained Snape. Or surprisingly canny, he added to himself.

"I have bested the finest minds of wizardom, out-maneuvering even Dumbledore himself, yet this thick-headed boy has anticipated my actions." The eyes dimmed as attention focused on drinking some tea. "Perhaps, having taught him, you can offer an explanation?"

Snape was not unprepared for the question. He had given it, and ones like it, some thought over the last eight months. To continue to attribute it all to good fortune was unthinking. Certainly the events in the graveyard were not the result of blind luck. The boy had always been a bit of a skulker, yes, and the unprotected grave had been a calculated risk to avoid Ministry attention. But, reasoned Snape, the intent was there. It was just that the whole of it seemed more like an elaborate prank than an actual attempt on the Dark Lord's life. The explosion and chaos were far more effective than they had any right to have been, but it was, at the heart, just a prank. "I... believe, my lord, the problem is that Dumbledore is - not - here. There is no guiding plan, no hidden agenda to Potter's actions. There is nothing to out-maneuver. Dumbledore's Order is adrift, and the Ministry stumbles daily. Without any real plan, Potter's actions not only appear random, they are random."

"Hmm. A fresh perspective. Perhaps I have failed to account for a high enough level of stupidity," sneered Lord Voldemort. The effect was diminished by the nasal whine of the voice.

"It is my experience that one should never underestimate that trait in a wizard, my lord," risked the former professor.

"You have given this much thought, my loyal servant. What would you propose?"

Snape had thought about this as well, looking to a solution that might save both Draco and himself. "I suggest not targeting the boy at the moment, my lord. He should be encouraged to enter the Ministry's auror training program. When he emerges, there is the possibility, the small possibility, that he will be a more dangerous dueling opponent, but he will also be taught Ministry spells, Ministry tactics, and Ministry rules." Time was what Snape needed.

"What a deliciously black heart you have, Snape. Conforming to bureaucratic authority will be his downfall? Not an epic ending, but one indicative of the weaknesses born of hiding the true power of wizards," said the Dark Lord. "Speaking of true power?"

"The port-key has been obtained. The contact in the French Ministry has it set for Porclette, a small muggle town just inside the border. He guarantees it will not be traced."

"Yes. I will assume he understands that his life is backing that confidence?" Snape nodded curtly. "Excellent. This body is strong, but the wand is nearly a useless stick. Now, how are your slimy bits doing these days?"

"Progress has been made at last. I have replicated Shastry's mouse-snake experiment," replied Snape. "The fangs on the mice are fully functional." Progress was much slower than anticipated, however. The murdered healer's notes were cryptic, with much unfamiliar jargon. His widow was more capable than Snape in interpreting the writings, but she herself lacked magic. The potion master's original plot had been to grow a body for the Dark Lord by fusing a few bits of Draco Malfoy with the reserved blood from the Dark Lord's first resurrected body, as a way to ingratiate the boy. That had been lost along with the Malfoy heir, but now the effort continued at the behest of the Dark Lord. The amount of magic imbued into the so-called nuclei of the cells intrigued the Dark Lord, as did the possibility of a made-to-order body. If one could not die, then the risk for a set of poison fangs was not that great, and the retribution would be so much more personal.

v - v - v - v - v

Gabrielle put her ear to the door of the closet beneath the stairs. No giggling this time. She was in the Green tower, looking for some privacy. The little corner in the library was not good enough this time, as she had the letter from George and the box from Fred. Opening the box would need space and, probably, hard cover. Gabrielle was hoping she was right about Fred. It was well after supper now, but there was still plenty of time before Gabrielle had to be back at the dorm.

The closet was dark inside and, as Allie had described, larger than one would think. Gabrielle wondered why the girl had been looking into the closets, and also what else was in that little book. This closet held many long poles with thick metal hooks on the end of them, leaned into a corner. Their use was not obvious. Gabrielle pulled out a candle from her handbag and, using the little blond wand that was truly hers, conjured a small flame to light it. Another candle was produced and lit with the wand. Then Gabrielle blew out the first candle so she could use her wand to relight it, because she found conjuring the little flames very relaxing. It suddenly occurred to Gabrielle that this might be part of the Veela heritage, a talent that had roots in the fireballs of the transformed state, like Grandmere had thrown. It was an intriguing epiphany, even a little cool, to Gabrielle, but also somewhat disappointing at the same time. A smile that could make certain staff members stop looking at her with such suspicion would be way more helpful.

The closet did not have any heavy wooden boxes or steel plates to hide behind, only the poles. This was simply another chance, thought Gabrielle, to use her superior witch abilities. She set to work transfiguring a pole into a stout shield. It was much harder than the thin boxes used in Wand Arts. Ten minutes later and feeling a little tired, she set aside her heavy creation, as it still had many wide gaps in the face and the hook, which was supposed to be the handle, was dangerously sharp. Gabrielle, instead, opened the package from Fred such that it pointed away from her. Stinksap was always easier to clean up if it was on something, or someone, else. There was no sticky splat this time, however. She looked into the box; it did seem to have something made of cloth in it.

Gabrielle, when it was clear that the fates were aligning to ruin her summer plans, had remembered that she might have a way to at least see George anyway. It was her talent - no, she corrected herself, it was among the many talents she had, that she could attempt to scry George. She had done it once before, for Harry Potter, to look for that disgusting Wormtail. All that she needed was something with a trace of George still on it, such as a shirt he had recently worn. She wrote Fred - a month's allowance for the Post! - that she was going to knit George a jumper, and that she needed the shirt for a pattern. Gabrielle chose Fred not because he would be the most helpful, but because he would use the opportunity to be helpful to be as irritating as possible. Mrs. Weasley would have sent her the spells and hints needed to do the knitting properly, which, of course, was the stated goal. George might have sent one, but even if it was not too embarrassing to ask, she expected that he would have sent a clean one. Fred, though - well, it was time to see.

But not time, thought Gabrielle, to be careless. She dug into the handbag for the knife Gaston had given her, and folded the muggle wonder into pliers. Gabrielle also brought out Poisseux, who did not get out as much as Pepi-Z. The zombie puffskein was almost always in her hair, except when she went to the stables. One careless nibble by any of the Abraxans would be the end of her fuzzy pet, or the beginning of the most disgusting rescue ever. Poisseux clambered happily in her lap until he faced what would have been a shield if there were not so many holes in it. The ersatz toad looked very put out. Gabrielle found that toads had rather remarkably expressive body language. It was, thought Gabrielle, all in the angle of the body as they sat. She knew the spellotape-bodied amphibian enjoyed watching her do magic; she should have taken him out earlier. Now he was going to be depressed and mopey. Which was, noted a second thought, more toad-like anyway.

That had not been a very nice thought, however, so Gabrielle set about un-transfiguring the shield to cheer up the zombie toad. It was more exact to say she was re-transfiguring her previous efforts. The result was not a return to the original, but a reasonable approximation of it, although with a lot of kinks and a much less strong hook. Gabrielle leaned it back into the corner with the other poles, and shifted several others to cover it. Her spells would wear off by themselves in time; there was no reason that anyone else should have to find out.

With Poisseux's body now at a much jauntier angle, Gabrielle turned back to the contents of the box. She took a handle of the pliers in each hand, and reached the metal jaws down into the box to grasp hold of the fabric. There was a flash of blue-white, a loud, sharp buzzing that ended in a sudden snap, and a thud. Poisseux adjusted to an angle that suggested panic.

v - v - v - v - v

"I would not have picked you as a screamer, Harry," started Fred Weasley, who sat casually on the stone-topped table. A pink ball spun on his fingertip.

"Unlike our family's shame," interjected George Weasley. He gave his brother Ron's still form a nudge, then turned back to the smoking cauldron he was struggling with.

"But I would have thought you'd find that somewhat alarming," continued Fred, sounding disappointed.

Harry Potter looked at his hand, or where his hand appeared not to be. He could clearly see the green-tinged strips of flesh hanging off the stump of his forearm, as if he had dipped his arm into some horrible acid derived from something only Hagrid could love. On the other, er, hand, he could also, if he shook the remains of his arm quickly, see a indistinct ripple in the air where his hand both had been and still was. With effort, he could feel his nails dig into his own invisible palm, although he had witnessed his hand and lower arm rot and drip away. "How's it done?" he asked finally.

"A lot like our Headless Hats. George did the gruesome effects," explained Fred.

"Muggle zombies are so much more drippier than real ones," added George knowledgeably. The cauldron was now spitting violet sparks. "What gave it away?"

Harry thought about that. When he and Ron had finally dared to cross the threshold into the upper room of the twins' shop, Fred had tossed one of the pink balls at each of them. It was impossible to refrain from catching the missiles by reflex. Once caught, the ball fell as the hand and arm holding it seemed to dissolve. Only, remembered Harry, it took the ball a moment too long to start to fall. "Er, I reckoned you two weren't about to maim me," said Harry instead.

"Ronnikins wasn't that sure," noted Fred with glee. Ron stirred with a moan.

"Um, along those lines - Duck!" suggested George, the last bit coming from the vicinity of the floor. The fountain of sparks merged to form a fireball that flashed to white-hot before exploding with a concussion so loud the ears barely heard it. The blast was followed by the quick staccato of shrapnel.

Harry pushed himself into a sitting position, and off of Ron, whom he had landed on. With his ears ringing, he pulled off his glasses and fixed the cracked lens with his wand. His lost arm had regrown several inches, and the stump was dangling from his wrist. He pulled the prank off his arm by the squelchy, dangling flesh. It fizzed away to nothing. "What was that? he asked. Harry repeated the question more loudly, since he could barely hear his voice. Fred answered with a barely audible mumble. "What?"

George was suddenly at Harry's side, stuffing something icy into the Boy-Who-Lived's ear. It was cold enough to cause a sharp pain over Harry's eye. "- that now? Better?" asked George. Harry nodded, so he received another dose for the other ear.

"What was that?" asked Harry for a third time. He explored a slice in his robes left by a whirling cauldron shard. Perhaps the brothers Weasley could only avoid intentional maiming.

"Oh, many things," answered George vaguely. "The one you meant was probably the lump of potassium."

"Listed under 'K' in the muggle catalog. A bit wonky in their organization, if you were to ask me. And if you were to ask me about - using - the stuff -" said Fred.

"All right, all right. I'll admit you might have seen that bludger. Still, rather pretty at the end, right before, er..."

"Before it nearly made us eligible for the Headless Hunt?" asked Harry. The twins just grinned. Harry bent over Ron and pulled the prank of his friend's arm as well. "Still here, mate?" he asked while giving Ron a shake when his eyes fluttered briefly.

"What? What? WHAT?" answered Ron, banging the side of his head.

"I'll warn again you about another bludger," chided Fred.

"What brings you young students to Diagon Alley this fine day?" asked George, ignoring his brother. "A bit out-of-bounds for you, isn't it?"

"Er, I'm not actually official at Hogwarts," explained Harry.

"WHAT? HELLO? WHAT?" shouted Ron.

"That's a good wheeze," noted Fred. "But it's a poor lookout for the Head Boy to be caught out too, eh?"

"WHAT?" Ron had a finger in his ear up to the second knuckle.

"I, er, heard you went to - " started Harry. He was interrupted by the door slamming open. Hermione, clearly in a pique, stood in the doorway.

"How can you dare sell feminine hygiene products as pranks?" demanded Hermione. "It's a very fragile time in a girl's life! Can you imagine the psychological scars of falling victim to a Red Geyser?"

"HERMIONE!"

"Well now, I'll admit that testing as been, er, spotty," said George.

"Don't," warned Hermione.

"I think you'll find that your average wizard not only has little opportunity for the deployment of said products, but also has little knowledge of the possibilities in the first place," excused Fred.

"In point of fact, witches buy those. Come up with them too," added George.

"And apparently find them funny, although personally..." Fred shuddered.

"WHY'S EVERYONE WHISPERING?"

"Why are you shouting, Ron?" asked Hermione.

"WHAT?"

Hermione touched her wand to her throat. "WHY ARE YOU SHOUTING, RON?"

"AM I?"

"YES!"

"Bright future in the Ministry, those two," gasped George as he laughed.

"It means stupidity is catching. Spreads by contact, too," said Fred. He shuddered again. "That reminds me. Catch!" He tossed the last pink ball to Hermione. Ron made a lunge for it, but Hermione directed it up to the ceiling with a sweep of her wand.

"DON'T TOUCH IT. IT TOOK MY BLOODY ARM OFF!" warned Ron.

"WHICH ARM WAS THAT?" boomed Hermione. Ron looked at his hands in surprise. "YOU'D HAVE TO BE STUPID TO CATCH SOMETHING IN THIS PLACE."

"OY, HARRY CAUGHT ONE TOO."

"She won't live this down easily. Wish I could use one of those viddy-lo recorders," said George.

"AND? WHY DO YOU NEED TO SHOUT?"

Harry shook his head and sighed. Why was everything so hard?

v - v - v - v - v

"Two sugars, Harry?" asked George. Hearing and voices had been restored to normal levels, debris had been picked out of the walls, and the tea was nearly there. "I could do some coffee if you -"

"No," interrupted Fred. "I can't work here when the place smells like the skip behind a fish shop in summer."

"Oh, you still work here, do you? Thought you had gone all management, the way you watch the employees. Well, I should say - an - employee..."

"Look, we need to know how to get to France," said Harry, hoping to thwart another round of Weasley bickering.

"Get a compass, right? Follow it south - can't hardly miss it. Mind the wet bit," advised Fred.

"Come on, give us a bit more help here. According to Fleur, even muggle routes are watched. No brooms, no port-keys, we can't apparate there - how did you do it?"

"You're making the very hurtful assumption that we were not wanted there," accused George.

"The French Ministry agreed to your travel?" asked Hermione in surprise. "I thought they forbid -"

Fred jumped in. "They might have let us in. We didn't ask."

"Why go to France anyway? I thought they banned Wheezes completely, bloody frogs," asked Ron.

Fred opened his grinning mouth, but the words were George's. "Partner good-will tour," he said quickly.

"Partner good-will," muttered Fred while rolling his eyes.

"Er, Fleur mentioned you were at Beauxbatons for the - "

"Partner good-will. You know there's this muggle tunnel under the Channel, right?" asked George hurriedly.

"Yeah," nodded Harry.

"Yes, but I thought the French were monitoring that," said Hermione.

"What, a tunnel through water?" asked Ron.

"It's under the ground that's under the water, Ron," said Hermione patiently.

"They watch the trains going in, and the trains going out," continued George.

"So you jumped off the train while it was still moving?" asked Ron. "Bloody hell, how fast do they go?"

"Don't be thick," said Fred. "Anyway you'd need a ticket to get on, and there's a good number of detector portals you'd have to pass through. Some from the goblins."

"It's not just one tunnel. There's one for going to the continent, one for coming back to England -" started George.

"There's three, actually. A service tunnel runs between the other two," as Hermione failed to contain herself.

"Yes, I was coming to that," complained George.

"Should have given her the boxes before you started," remembered Fred.

"That's right! You promised me two of your shop's special boxes. And a reading list," said Hermione.

"Three tunnels? That's, that's balmy..." mumbled Ron.

"We went a bit better than that, since you're practically -" began George.

"Inexplicably," interjected Fred.

"- a part of the family." continued George. Ron examined his shoes. "There's a scroll or two for you, and copies of the notes the Krishnas use too."

"Sounds smashing," said Harry. "Erm, so there's three of these tunnels. And?"

"What are krishnas?" asked Ron. "They those fried buns with cream in?"

"Not what, you git - who. Krishna S. and Krishna R. Told us not to bother about surnames; grates on their ears when we try," explained Fred.

"They are Indian?"

"Welsh, actually. But their ancestors were, when it was a colony," answered George.

"Can we get back to France?" insisted Harry.

"Wouldn't think so. You haven't been there yet," joked Fred.

"Tell us how you crossed the bloody Channel!" snapped Harry.

"Not a beaten man yet, I see," grinned Fred. "Ginny's not had much chance then. My own brothers are a lost cause, save Charlie."

"Come again?"

"My fiercely independent brother, for breakfast this morning, enjoyed a delightful fruit cup and, if he has been good, a second slice of wholewheat toast," announced George.

"Fruit cup?" murmured Ron with a look of horror.

"There was an egg too," grumbled Fred half to himself. "Who went running to the queen when she beckoned?"

"Partner good-will," repeated George. "We had to go anyway to smooth things over with the Touliers. And Philippe."

"I still can't see why he's involved. He's worse than a goblin about galleons - always doing sums," complained Fred.

"The Touliers trust him, not us. And he's saved you a hundred of those galleons doing sums," added George. "You're just hacked off because he got you with that wire hooked up to the mans."

"I never did like that jammy bastard."

"Was there at least jam?" asked Ron.

"Hooked up to the man's what?" asked Harry, despite wanting to get back to the travel question and despite, perhaps, not wanting to really know.

"You know, the holes for the plugs the muggles put on everything," explained George.

"The mains?" suggested Hermione. "Who is Philippe?"

"Gigi's boyfriend," smirked Fred.

"Partner good-will tour, implying more than one stop. And you were at Beauxbatons - you don't have Beebee selling your pranks, do you? Fred! George! She could be expelled!" said Hermione hotly. "It's not right taking advantage of her like that."

"She's not selling Wheezes," said George, putting his hands up placatingly. "I would - we would never do anything to hurt her."

"Least not badly," grinned Fred. George did not. "It's more a mail-drop arrangement. Purely temporary. Surprised she hasn't been made to tell us to bugger off."

"Impressed was the word you used before," reminded George.

"Yeah, well."

"Let's get back to the tunnels under the Channel, please. We're not out-of-bounds, but we are running out of time," said Harry. He glanced up at the pink ball still hovering up near the ceiling. An idea was coming to him. One that was he was sure the twins would help with.

"Right. It's simple. Slip into the service tunnel, and do line-o'-sight apparition the length of it. Or fly; they're bloody huge," shrugged George.

"That's it?"

"Yes, but you had to be damned clever to think of it in the first place," declared Fred.

"If we do say so ourselves," added George, bowing.

"So they don't watch the service tunnel at all?" asked Hermione.

"The muggles do, I suppose, for all they notice anything," said George.

"Completely enclosed, weird lighting, noisy mechanisms - it's not a wizard kind of place," added Fred.

v - v - v - v - v

Gabrielle staggered through the halls, trailing a cloud of ozone. She tried to avoid the metal railings on the stairs and the bronze statues and urns elegantly placed along the walkways; she still sparked if she got too close. It was hard to think, so Gabrielle held onto one thought, which was that Fred would suffer horribly. Or die. Or both; it - was - hard to think so Gabrielle could not decide. Despite her precautions, she had been shocked when she had reached the pliers into the box. That had been bad, but it was worse when she, after crawling back to the box, had assumed the prank had done its work - and reached in again. What made it so much worse was the way Poisseux sat looking at her like she was a complete idiot when she got back up. The spellotape toad actually nosed the box over for her so she could lift the bottom of the box off the contents without incident. It was quite embarrassing to be shown up by a toad, especially one that spent so much time in a handbag.

Fred had sent a wreck of a shirt, as Gabrielle had hoped and expected. It was a thick pullover, but it was torn and the arms had been cut short. Completely useless as a pattern. She wanted to think of it as redolent with George's unique scent, but, really, it stank. It was very dirty as well, as if he had been creeping through a cramped tunnel or pipe. Gabrielle was sure the shirt would work for scrying, as long as there was an open window nearby. But Fred still had to die. Or suffer. Or both.

It was a good thought; a powerful thought to focus on. It was not much use when it came to navigation, though, so Gabrielle was not sure which hall went to her dorm. It was confusing because the choices were on the wrong side of the wall. Poisseux would probably know, but she could not face him just yet. There were people here, but none appeared to be Fred. Who had to suffer. To help concentrate, Gabrielle imagined her nemesis crammed into her cauldron. Over a nice big fire.

"Uh, hello, uh, Gigi? Are you all right?" Gabrielle looked over to see Silvain looking back curiously.

"Fred will suffer," blurted Gabrielle. It was not what she intended, but it had been on the tip of her tongue.

"You don't look too good. You look a little scorched, to be - gah!" A white-blue spark jumped between Silvain's outstretched hand and Gabrielle's chest. It hurt a really sensitive, rather small prominence. Gabrielle had a moment of clarity and wrapped her arms across herself. Fred would suffer - and - die. More voices filtered in.

"It's Delacour. What's she doing here?"

"Was that a new Wheeze? Looked like it hurt."

"It's the Goblet's Jinx!"

"Chut, idiot! Don't say it so loud. If the prefect hears you - "

"Roget? You're the idiot - he gets Skiving Snackboxes. You didn't believe all those stories about bad pate did you?"

"Did someone order more Poot Powder?"

"Mon Dieu, non. I was finally able to breathe again."

"There's a Deluxe version now. It'll make you fart La Marseillaise."

"That's, that's just... so cool."

"Come on Gigi. Let's find, uh, Monique." It was Silvain again, a little further away than before, and wary.

"Silvain, it's almost curfew."

"I'd like to find Monique, heh!"

"Silvain and Delacour? I thought she tried to flush him down a toilet."

"Shut up! Shut up!" hissed Silvain. "You can see she needs help."

v - v - v - v - v

Gabrielle did not get a chance to look at George's letter until the following day. Monique wanted to have a picnic again to get even more sun, and see Impy, but Gabrielle begged out of it. She had a natural excuse. The pipes in the shower had earthed the residual magic very forcefully, and her legs still felt wobbly.

"Eh, Pepi-Z? Is there..." Oh, remembered Gabrielle, that's right. Poisseux had taken the slightly crisped little red bobble into his mouth and into the handbag. Her faux toad was having a snit, completely of his own choosing because, thought Gabrielle, how was she supposed to know the prank would go off twice? If Poisseux was disappointed in her abilities, then he could stay in the handbag forever. Anyway, how could she make it up to him? Neither pet was technically alive, so there were no special treats to offer them. Poisseux would probably forgive her, decided Gabrielle, if she showed him the dancing flame spell. Once, of course, she managed to get the spell to work. Right now it just seemed like the breeze from waving her wand made the flames move.

In the meanwhile, the loss of the zombie puffskein's early warning was making life more difficult. Such as now, when Gabrielle wanted to put a study carol in what she thought of as her special corner. The Palace's house-elves had secured nearly every study carol to the floor, at least on this level of the library. Probably the only one not fixed in place was the one she kept in her handbag. Gabrielle felt a little guilty about that, but it was not as if she was going to keep it forever. So it was not stealing, at all. If the house-elves would have welded one in her corner, she would have used that.

There was another way, even without Pepi-Z's help. Gabrielle stepped to the corner, squatted down, and rummaged through the magical handbag liner until she found the apron from Mrs. Weasley. Gabrielle used to try and become invisible when she wanted to avoid a scene. That, she had to admit, seemed impossible to do. The apron, though, showed her another possibility. Gabrielle found that it was possible to be... unnoticed. It came naturally, added a critical thought. That did bother Gabrielle a little. She was part Veela; she should be the light in any room. If Fleur laid on the floor and was covered by a tarpaulin, people would see it and say it was the most beautiful lump ever. Gabrielle knew if she did that she risked being binned. She could sit at dinner in the Dining Hall, go quiet, and even Monique would soon pick at her dessert. That was a little depressing, that she could be overlooked so easily. Gabrielle felt a lot better when she decided that it was actually a talent. That she was able to overcome her natural heritage so completely, thought Gabrielle, really indicated a high degree of ability.

Once the apron was on, Gabrielle did not worry about the other student wizards and witches that passed. Other than to quietly accept their illicit food wrappers. The upper classes were spending a lot of time in the library as the school year wound down and the stress over exams wound up. Gabrielle pulled the study carol slowly out of her handbag, positioned it just so, and opened George's letter.

"Dear Gabrielle," started the letter. This was one of Gabrielle's favorite parts. Never 'Dear Gigi' or Fred's 'Oy Gigi.' She also liked the way her name looked when George wrote it. She did not say that out loud, though, because she did not want people to look at her like they looked at Allie. Or, frankly, Dillie.

"First, sorry about the Bogey Blasters luv." The diminutive just had to mean something, hoped Gabrielle. "We thought it was self-explanatory and they were green after all." No, thought Gabrielle. It was not obvious at all. It was only afterward that the meaning of bogey was apparent. "What is the proper French word for bogey? Fred wants to use escargot, but that's just him being a git. I would have loved to see the results. A horse's nose is at least four times the size of a wizard's. Wouldn't suppose you could give us a guess on the volume?" A question from Fred, undoubtedly.

"I read in Le Monde, Magique about the Stone Tower at the school. I will swear on Merlin's staff that that was bog-standard Wildfire. It should not have blown down a building. Truth is they are mostly noise and pretty flashes, which is all the punters can handle anyway." He, wondered Gabrielle, reads Le Monde, Magique? That was a surprise, one with many possibilities her daydreams would fill out. What was a punter?

"The weather here is dreary. It's not dementor-spawn this time. The muggles have gotten the worst of it - someone's learned to create magical whirlwinds. The ruddy things shredded a couple of villages in the midlands." Gabrielle frowned. How closely did George actually read her letters? He completely missed her use of metaphor for how her life was without him. It might have been, allowed Gabrielle, a little over the top in a literary sense, but really, the weather? "The Minister of Magic has the aurors running in circles to find who's doing it. Dad said Scrimgeour told him that the muggles have some sort of map taken from space by an artificial new-ronny thing that shows spots that shouldn't be blank, and they want something done. Not about the blank spots, but about the muggle attacks. There's not a lot of support for Scrimgeour's efforts. It looks like an election might be called." Poor Mr. Weasley. Elections were always the worst time for Papa, remembered Gabrielle.

"Mum is doing well. Still over the moon about the grandchild thing, of course. Bill says Fleur is even tired of the fussing now." That made Gabrielle think of Ginny, and Mrs. Weasley's expectations there. "You remember Old Man Winterhall? From the wedding dinner? You must, he caused quite a scene. Mum visited him the other day. He's doing poorly now. Mum says he's shrinking away faster than a shrivelfig. He did quite a good likeness of you out of flax seed and dried feverfew on his dining table, apparently." Well, he was insane, thought Gabrielle, but that was a little sad even so. The dried feverfew - Gabrielle decided to ask Lucretia about her hair. Her roommate would not hide the awful truth - if there was such a truth.

"Chin up in Wand Arts. As long as they aren't making you do lines with a blood quill it's just a matter of time. Do practice with your favored wand though." Her Papa could have written this.

"I found a method that can tell whether dried armadillo bile was collected under a full moon or not. The proper stuff burns yellow when mixed with sulfur and a little bit of aconite. Half our bloody stock is tainted. We'll be having a word with our supplier, count on that." This was a standard feature of George's letters: tips from the workroom or customer anecdotes. Gabrielle was not sure about why he included them. The notes were either banal, or were a welcome sign of familiarity.

"Cheers, George" That was not familiar, just banal. Gabrielle always hoped for something more heartfelt.

"P.S. Mum got word from Fleur that the Goblet of Fire had picked you for some expedition of some sort. I'm well chuffed about it." That might, considered Gabrielle, mean completely disconsolate at the news. "An excellent chance for a bit of mischief. I'll send you an assortment." Probably not, sighed Gabrielle. There was no two ways of looking at it. There was a lot of work that needed to be done here.


	5. Being One

Chapter Five - Being One

Severus Snape strode away from the ornately carved stone stairs of Malfoy Manor, and stopped short at the sight of the owl. The snow-white, arctic owl. There were surely more than the one in use in the wizarding world, but Snape suspected that he already knew its owner. The owl took flight as soon as eye-contact was made. Something fluttered to the ground as the bird silently flapped off, toward a stand of trees further from the grand house.

The former professor pulled out his wand and approached warily. Potter's bird, and it had to be his, Snape was sure, was well within the Malfoy blood wards. That should not have been possible, thought Snape. Official Post owls were not excluded, of course, but who they had access to was easily controlled. Personal owls, such as the ones used by the Dark Lord's agents, were allowed through the warding on an individual basis. It was rather doubtful Potter's bird was in either category, and yet it had known he was here and had waited for him. It was difficult to get one's mind around the fact that Potter, little sneak though he had always been, was so easily slipping things past wards that had stood impregnable for centuries.

Perhaps, considered Snape, the Dark Lord had deduced and anticipated this new capability, which would explain his decision to decamp. Just as likely, though, was a desire to escape the wearing presence of Narcissa. The months of captivity for her son, and the lack of progress on freeing her husband had... loosened her grip on sanity. Somewhat, if he felt like being charitable. In the past few months she had taken to her rooms, emerging only to rant. There she spent time talking to one of Lucius' hats. Narcissa was not, knew Snape, reassured at all by his continued health. Rather, she viewed it as a betrayal that his Vow was not killing him. That he was now known to be at Malfoy Manor gave him an excuse to flee as well, lest the Ministry attempt to seize him, but...

There was a scrap of parchment on the ground, at the base of the post the owl had perched on. It was secured from blowing away in the evening breeze by the owl droppings it had landed in. The Chosen Buffoon's idea of humor, no doubt. The missive was brief. 'Meet tonight. 100 yards east of the Hogsmeade gate in the Forest.' Not signed, noticed the potion master, though the scribble and the conspicuous owl was enough to identify the author.

Brief though it was, there was much to ponder. Specifying the meeting for tonight, thought Snape, either meant the boy was able to track his whereabouts or was able to use the resources needed for a meeting whenever the owl returned. Probably the latter; Snape prided himself on not being careless. Still, the short notice again implied forethought, as there could be no subtle counter. The same could be said, decided Snape, of the lack of a way to reply. It was a summons, not a parley. If he chose not to go, there may not be another.

The lack of a threat, direct or veiled, against Draco was puzzling. Perhaps, mused Snape, that ploy was being held in reserve, in the event he did not answer this. It was an indication of the company he kept, though, that the missing warning made the message seem incomplete. The confidence shown in the strokes of the pen meant Potter was sure the meeting would go as intended, however. It was, worried Snape, as if Potter actually did know what Draco meant to him.

Snape gathered his black cloak around him. A confident student was easy prey. Owl familiars were fast, but not as fast as apparition. The trip would be exhausting, but he would be there before Potter and his gang could set any nasty surprises. That would open the hoops equally, as the saying goes.

v - v - v - v - v

Harry Potter sat dangling his feet into the Hogwarts lake, just near the dock where Hagrid traditionally left off the first years. There had not been many this year. He wondered where they had gone, whether to another school in Britain or abroad, or had just been kept at home. This distraction gave the grindylow he had been teasing an opportunity. It was only a Seeker's peripheral vision that prevented a severe laceration.

Harry was waiting for Ginny Weasley, to either celebrate her success or offer sympathy, depending on how the latest exam had gone. He hoped there was something to celebrate, he told himself, even though sympathy was a far more private affair. Hermione was sitting for her N.E.W.T.s, of course. Harry had tried to convince her that that was not a good idea given all the extracurricular work she was doing, but she felt she could hardly be Head Girl if she did not. Unfortunately for Ron, Hermione saw a parallel there. So Harry, who was quite all right with using his uncertain status to duck out of the ordeal, had revised, drilled, and endlessly quizzed with Ron to pull the Head Boy together. It had been an effort worthy of an Order of Merlin, though he did not feel, as Hermione hinted, that sitting for the exams was an excellent way to reward his own efforts.

The screech of an owl, a familiar screech, brought the wizards's head around. His owl Hedwig came flapping down the stone strewn path, half dragging a figure struggling to stay upright.

"That's enough of that, girl," Harry called sharply. He held out his arm for the owl to perch on. The large and clearly annoyed bird settled there. Sharp talons gave some indication as to how annoyed.

"Dobby has brought Harry Potter's owl," explained the little house-elf. He was wearing what might have been a child's rain slicker, and looked decidedly chewed.

"Hedwig! That wasn't very nice of you," scolded Harry. The owl's ruffled feathers pointed to the trip being difficult though. "Go on back to the owlery - I'll bring you a treat or two a bit later." He gave his owl a boost into the air, where it circled menacingly before flying off toward the castle's towers. For a moment, Harry feared Hedwig might dive at Dobby.

"Er, how did it go? Did he get the message?" asked Harry.

"Dobby saw the bad wizard read it, yes."

"I'm sorry about Hedwig, Dobby. Don't know what got into her. You, erm, all right?" Now that he looked closer, the house-elf seemed to be missing a bit of ear.

The elf noticed Harry's stare. "Dobby's ears were getting too long anyway, Harry Potter," nodded Dobby. "Harry Potter's owl did not like the trip back." Dobby tentatively stuck out his hand, palm up.

"Oh, er, sorry again all the same. Thanks." Harry placed a sickle into the house-elf's hand. For Dobby to practically demand payment it must have a real rough go. A sickle did not seem like enough for the risk, but Dobby would not take more. While he had come to grips with the paying for work, the elf still had no grasp of value. Harry decided to leave that to Hermione, and for later. For now, he needed her and Ron to get ready. They had to be at the meeting first.

v - v - v - v - v

Gabrielle sat on her hand, which really, really hurt. It was cramping from holding a quill for two solid hours as she wrote furiously, trying to cover every possible topic that might have been marked 'expand.' Gabrielle was very sure that she would not get a chance to rework the exam, and was desperate to get at least an Acceptable in Wand Arts. She had needed a ridiculous meter and a half more parchment than anyone else, and had been the last one to finish.

The cramping hand had not hurt so much at first, but Gabrielle had, she now realized, stupidly allowed Monique to try a spell she said her mother used on her father's leg. The magic had either gone wrong or it was a wonder the two were still married. It did not help that Monique had been one of the first out of the exam, would probably easily earn an Acceptable because of Gabrielle 's notes, and was too happily on her way to get more sun when Gabrielle had finally emerged from her personal dungeon. Monique argued that since Gabrielle 's leg did not hurt it had not been the spell's fault. Sharp words had been exchanged, for which Gabrielle was already feeling regret. A talent from Fleur, perhaps. A visit from Impudanae would help fix things.

That would have to wait until the shooting pains stopped. At least the marble bench Gabrielle sat on offered cooling relief. A decidedly small, cooling relief. She should probably go to the infirmary and Monsieur Maltranchier, but he had to be the least sympathetic healer in France, always sighing heavily after each potion was used from his dwindling stocks. That was not her fault. Most of the really expensive potions and treatments went to Tibault. Which was, technically, almost nearly her fault.

At least the Wand Arts practical had come before the written portion. The plan Gabrielle had come up had worked beautifully. She would write George about that. She had begged Mademoiselle Deudancorp for a delay , explaining that she had misplaced her wand and only had an old practice wand to work with. Mademoiselle Deudancorp - or was it Mademoiselle Deudancorp? - had not been generous at all, and made Gabrielle take her turn. With surprising glee, noted Gabrielle sourly. Gabrielle did not, of course, mention that the 'old' wand was her true wand, nor did she bother to explain that she herself had put the twisted wand with the hair from her Grandmere in a different spot than normal. She had not lied; the professor just had not taken the time to gather all of the information.

The testing had gone better, that was certain. It had just not gone as well as Gabrielle had hoped - had expected! Gabrielle suspected that was because she did not get enough time to practice with the little, blond wand, except for making flames. Or, perhaps, the wand took exception to being called an old practice wand. A nagging thought kept suggesting the minuscule possibility that she actually lacked talent, which was ridiculous. Gabrielle vowed to turn everything into a teapot when she had the chance using her real wand, and levitate it. She did notice that the wand from Grandmere worked quite a bit faster than the little wand, but with less control, as if it were trying to guess what she wanted. The wand would do better, thought Gabrielle, if it did not try so hard.

A sharp twinge, enough to bring tears, made Gabrielle stand up. She still had not settled on where to go. The resident prefect might be able to help as well as the healer, assuming she was not in an exam herself. And was not still siding with Lucretia.

It suddenly occurred to Gabrielle who could, who would help: Professor Elevagre! How often had she seen him set bones in his fingers and soothe burns and staunch bleeding and... Professor Elevagre, thought Gabrielle, really should find another position. Although, came a second thought, would another professor give her so much extra credit?

"It's the Jinx, isn't it? You're, ooh, turning into a harpy?" Two hands, flexed like claws in mimicry of her clenched one, waved at the air.

"Eh, what? No!" It was Roni, an annoying idiot from the seventh class who ordered almost as much Poot Powder as Drago ever had. Wizards and witches from the higher classes were working to keep a strong updraft in place around dorm seven. Roni was not his actual name, but that's all people called him.

"Should I get Silvain?"

Gabrielle gave him a Look, which was spoiled by another bad cramp in her writing hand. She used her other to wipe her eyes. Something had to be done, and the healer was closer. Gabrielle stood up. "No, Eh, I have to go."

"You two broke up? I'm sorry, I didn't know. Listen, don't go - I'll, ooh, try and talk to him, yeah. Hey, if I can get him to come over, can I get my next order free? Because I was thinking of getting one of those -"

"_Silencio!"_ barked Gabrielle. Even with her off-hand, even with her off-wand, it had been a good spell. The gibbering Roni now looked more like a fish out of water, his mouth still moving before his tiny brain realized. Poisseux should have seen it.

v - v - v - v - v

Severus Snape reappeared within sight of the Hogsmeade gate, and slipped into the darkness of the Forbidden Forest. Then, with a flash of magical fire that burned away the sticky webbing, slipped back out of the Forbidden Forest. At least until his eyes adjusted to the darkness - the last apparition point had been close to a muggle warehouse and their blasted artificial lights. Perhaps muggles did have an inkling as to what could lurk in the darkness, and sought to banish those with perpetual day. But here in the real world, thought Snape, one needed to see everything as it truly is. Particularly since the acromantulas had apparently set up a new colony.

Snape set off again on a tortuous course intended to deceive any observers alerted by his flashy escape. He slowed as he approached the approximate location, and through the trees spotted a Chudley Cannons pennant on a stick stuck into the ground. About as subtle as expected, he thought. It made the luck hypothesis seem more likely. Snape raised his wand, intending to set some simple proximity alarms. Simple, but well-concealed. He had, after all, the advantage and fully intended to keep it.

"I shouldn't bother, you greasy git." Snape whirled around as Harry stepped from behind a tree, wand ready. "I'm already here."

Snape sneered as he recovered from the surprise. "Still an impressive wit, I see. For a troll." And a champion skulker - how many nights had the boy sat out here under that damned cloak until the owl had delivered the message? It was that, or Potter truly had known his location before sending the owl.

"Better that than a murdering bastard and traitor," spat Harry.

"All alone though? Not very bright for meeting a traitor. As arrogant as ever, Potter." Merlin, even the sight of the boy grated on his nerves.

"'E never said he was alone," growled a new voice. Ah, thought Snape, there he is: the great dunderhead Ronald Weasley, attempting to use menace to cover his lack of skill.

Except, reconsidered Snape quickly, that was the second he had not detected. There was likely a third. A competent third, but one who could be indecisive in battle. Surprise was lost, yes, but it was still possible to gain the upper hand. Disarming Weasley would be trivial; it took him too long to remember an incantation. Something colorful for Potter first, then, planned Snape. His shield was fast, but his spell following it would be slow.

Snape snapped his wand forward, launching a gaudy fireball at Harry. As expected, it was blocked, but the disarming spell on Weasley caught him gaping. As Snape went to flick a chain-binding hex toward Potter, he was surprised when he was hit by a simple Petrificus. The spell was weak, but it had been done non-verbally and by - Weasley? Snape was sure the disarming spell had hit the buffoon, yet somehow he had held onto his wand. Snape immediately began to counter the effects when a vine wood wand emerged from the air. It was held, at his neck, by Granger, the last of the trio. She had the cloak.

"That'll do, please, all of you," ordered Hermione.

"He bloody near pulled my arm from its socket," complained Ron. "And he tried to toast Harry's, er.. well, toast Harry."

"No," said Hermione. "I'd wager that flame would've have barely lit a candle. It was just for distraction."

"I was distracted by it," replied Ron, rubbing his shoulder.

"Yes, I did say. And it was why you nearly lost your wand."

"Full marks for the analysis, Miss Granger, again. You may sit down," said Snape.

"Missing your old life among the decent people? Worshipping a homicidal maniac not working out for you?" asked Harry, returning the sneer.

"Ten points for insolence, and another five for wasting my time."

"Shut up the lot of you," snapped Hermione, giving her wand an extra jab into Snape's neck. He had freed himself from Weasley's spell, though he had not moved yet. "Harry, get on with it."

"Yes, do. I am only here at the Dark Lord's behest," complained Snape. "I have potions waiting."

"No, that's not the only reason," asserted Harry.

Ah, thought the former professor, the reference to Draco he was expecting. "Young Malfoy has lost the Dark Lord's favor, and is no concern of mine now," bluffed Snape.

"I know that is not true," said Harry. A counter-bluff, judged Snape, but best to move on.

"Can I hit him now?" asked Ron. An idiot, came a second judgement.

"Let's get back to the topic, Harry. And put your wand away, slowly, Snape," instructed Hermione. "I know you've countered Ron's spell."

"As could most children." Snape put his wand back inside his robes.

"Still got you, you great dung-breathed bat!" crowed Ron.

"Harry, please. I've, erm, got more revising to do. Arithmancy," pleaded Hermione.

"All right. Look, we want to know about Quirrell." An involuntary blink of surprise interrupted Snape's steely stare of intimidation. It had not been working in any case, as Potter never quite met his gaze. The boy had, against all expectations, learned something. And dealt with Bellatrix and Frenrir, Snape reminded himself.

Snape realized that he had simply forgotten the erratic thought processes of students. He had expected demands for the whereabouts of the Dark Lord, or details of his plans, or even help in defeating him. "Quirrell?" asked Snape. "The man is dead, by your hand - the first of your victims." The taunt was petty, but the boy looked so much like his damned father. Except for Lily's eyes.

"Voldemort under his hat had more to do with that than - "

"Do not say the name!" hissed Snape, before composing himself again. The twitch of the wand at his neck suggested calm would be appreciated.

"Towel," noted Ron. "Quirrell wore a towel on his head."

"Turban, actually," clarified Hermione. "Like the Sikhs of India are known for. It's useful when -"

"When you have a Dark Lord sticking out of you, yeah," interrupted Harry. "Did he, Quirrell that is, ever mention where in Albania he had gone?"

This was why, thought Snape, he never liked speaking with students. Too much gibberish to parse out, and too little left to make sense. At least subtle dissembling was impossible. "No. Quirrell never spoke of it and I had no interest in his little, so-called achievements."

"Why is Wormtail in Albania?" asked the Boy-Who-Lived.

Another surprise, but one that suggested a goal to Snape, and hinted at a darker side to the boy: he had a list of enemies, and was working through it. What had he told Granger that she would be an accomplice? Where was he on the list? Probably, guessed Snape, near the bottom, as his information would be invaluable for ensnaring others. This could prove useful, though. "How do you know Wormtail is in Albania?"

"Oy! We're askin' the questions here," barked Weasley. A glare was sufficient to make him shrink back.

"A friend, erm, saw him there," explained Potter. "Hiding."

It did not feel like a lie. Pettigrew, smirked Snape, has been careless. The Dark Lord might find that tidbit interesting. Snape replied, "I do not know the nature of the errand the rat was sent on, only that the Dark Lord is displeased enough to deal with Wormtail... personally." That, judged the spy, should be adequate warning.

At least for Granger it was. For Potter and Weasley, it seemed to confirm something else, based on the exchanged glances. "Personally? He has a new body?" asked the girl.

"Not his own. I suspect you three had a hand in seeing to that, judging by the crude, obnoxious technique." Weasley looked like he would burst from pride. Harry's face flashed to a pained expression. Snape noted it - the boy and the Dark Lord still had a connection. "He has become quite adept at using the ones belonging to others."

"It's not a potion or glamour - he could easily travel incognito," worried Hermione. Ten points for that, thought Snape. The Dark Lord was currently in a weak host, though. Ron swallowed an expletive he had started at her glare.

v - v - v - v - v

Gabrielle pushed open the door to the infirmary. It was deserted of students at the moment. Mordant, Monsieur Maltranchier's large black raven, turned on his perch, made of twin, entwined snakes, to look at her. "Eh, my hands hurts," explained Gabrielle politely. She held up the offending appendage. Mordant sidled silently along his perch. "Monsieur Maltranchier is in?" Mordant usually announced visitors, but instead the bird hopped down to the desk to peck at a pile of cards. "It, eh, hurts a lot," Gabrielle hinted. In turn, Mordant hopped over to her with a card in its beak. On it was a number, the number two. Gabrielle stared at it; this was new.

Mordant fluttered back to the perch, his eyes of coal looking past Gabrielle to the hard, wooden bench along the wall. Gabrielle frowned, sighed, and sat down. Monsieur Maltranchier should have a little sign, thought Gabrielle, to show whether he is in or not. Perhaps two is when he will be back? She had barely settled back when the raven croaked out his announcing call.

A louder, heavier sigh preceded Maltranchier's entrance. The healer opened the door to the back. "Of course. Mademoiselle Delacour."

Gabrielle smiled in the face of that, and stood up. "Good afternoon, Monsieur Maltranchier. Eh, it is my -" A loud squawk of avian indignation interrupted her. The source, Mordant, was now pecking a small chalkboard with something scrawled on it. The healer turned to it with barely masked exasperation.

Gabrielle could not read what was written, though it appeared to be words. "Eh, please, what does it say?"

"I should have gotten a bird who cold speak, instead of this old fellow who thinks he can write," started Maltranchier. "His spelling is atrocious. I believe it is trying to say that we are now serving... one." He looked at Gabrielle, who looked at her card with the number two and then the otherwise empty waiting room.

"But there is no one else!" blurted Gabrielle.

"We'll just give whoever it is a little more time," assured the healer. "Then we'll skip ahead." He backed from the room, and pulled the door closed behind him. Gabrielle watched dumbly. This was not right.

Gabrielle thought of complaining to the raven that he had given her the wrong number, that she should be seen now, but decided against it. She didn't understand raven - she was barely capable in toad. Instead, she casually strolled over to the desk to see if she could spot the card with the right number on it. Beady black eyes glared at her with affront. Unfortunately the cards were turned over. Gabrielle might have peeked under them just to check, but a raven's beak is quite sharp. "You should keep them stacked more neatly," she criticized on the way back to the bench.

That piece of unsolicited advice probably earned her an extra five minutes of sitting on the hard bench, but eventually Mordant hopped over to the chalkboard. There he took up a cloth in his beak, and began erasing part of the chalked message with pecking motions. It took several more minutes; the raven was very thorough. Then the bird took up a piece of chalk and began to, well, write using the same pecking technique. No small wonder, thought Gabrielle, that it was so hard to read. The markings were made of barely connected, dusty impacts. And Monsieur Maltranchier must go through a lot of chalk. White splinters flew with each peck.

Gabrielle could see what the bird was doing, and was pulling out a quill even before she heard Healer Maltranchier rise. It did nothing for her hand except to renew the pangs.

"Ahem. I'll now take number, hmm, three?" announced Maltranchier uncertainly. His raven preened smugly.

"That is me," declared Gabrielle, showing her card which now had a number three on it. The ink still glistened.

Even as the healer motioned for her to enter, Mordant was croaking his complaints and scattering cards messily on the desk. Gabrielle smiled in triumph, and could not resist reminding the annoyed creature, "I told you to stack them neatly, did I not?" She kept the altered card with her as she followed Maltranchier. She would need to remove the ink later.

The infirmary was familiar to Gabrielle. She had been there dozens of times, several of which were just for visits. A smell similar to bacon made her pause to look in on Drago. The burly boy from the fifth class slept in the dimness of the room. He had hair now; it could not be long until he was able to leave. Or be interrogated. Two doors further down was where Tibault lay. The screen normally blocking the door had been removed, and Gabrielle could see his wasted face for the first time in months. He also looked like he would be able to leave soon. That was a little unnerving.

When Gabrielle and Maltranchier reached the examination room, the healer sat down of the room's stool. Gabrielle perched on the edge of the bed. "You are not bleeding, nor smoldering, and you are able to walk under your own power. What brings you here, Mademoiselle Delacour, hmm?" asked Maltranchier.

No sympathy, thought Gabrielle. The healers in Paris were far more caring. That might have been because Papa was paying them, noted a second thought. "It is my hand. It is cramping from the exam, from, eh, writing too much." Gabrielle decided not to mention Monique's attempt.

"Why, that's almost normal," said Monsieur Maltranchier in surprise. "It's caused by muscle spasms. Heat and relaxing the muscles will have it right in no time. Let me see the hand." He took Gabrielle 's hand, which was partly clenched like a claw again. The healer kneaded the base of the palm near the wrist. "Hmm. This was the one that was -"

"Yes," said Gabrielle curtly. "That is the hand."

"Amazing, really. This will feel a little odd," he warned. The healer's wand, an ornately turned baton of some age-darkened wood, touched a spot on Gabrielle 's wrist.

A jolt shot from that spot to her fingertips and elbow, and her hand flopped limply. Unexpectedly, an identical sensation raced from her knee to her toes and hip. Since Gabrielle was only mostly sitting on the bed, the sudden loss of muscle tone in her leg made her slide to the floor. "Waagh!" she exclaimed.

Then Gabrielle was back up, being levitated once more onto the bed by Monsieur Maltranchier. He reached for a vial, with a heavy sigh, and put it to her lips. It was unfamiliar, but not horrible. She would have said that it was not necessary, that she was mostly fine, but her mouth was full of the potion. Which, thought Gabrielle, was spicy, like the way a curry house smelled, and tasted vaguely of... snake. She could see the snake in front of her, bobbing and hissing with its hood spread wide. It was Sheitan, as ill-tempered as ever and so dark you could almost not see its markings. Gabrielle 's wiry brown arm waved the woven straw lid of Sheitan's basket off to one side. It did not distract the wary serpent. That was bad news for the both of them, thought Gabrielle. Sheitan would die this day. It was too dangerous anymore to gather his venom and his precious tears. The question was whether she herself would be killed as well. Gabrielle swung the lid quickly part way toward the snake. Sheitan struck at the lid not once, but twice. The snake may know his fate, thought Gabrielle. Sheitan turned back to her, the golden eyes blazing like, becoming, the sun.

Gabrielle tried to turn her face away from the blinding light, but a strong hand held her in place and her eye open. She swallowed the mouthful of potion she had, and tried to push the flaring wand away. Her arm flopped uselessly.

"Can you tell me your name?" asked Maltranchier.

"It is Gabrielle, of course. Eh, 'G' is for Gabrielle," replied Gabrielle automatically. She tried to raise herself up, but only half her appendages seemed to work properly. All of them tingled and twitched.

"Hmm. What day is it?'

"It is.. it is, eh..." Gabrielle was not completely sure what day of the week it was - they had blurred - but she sure knew what day it was. "It is the day of the Wand Arts exam. Please, I am fine. Eh, except for my leg. Legs, and arms."

"Bad reaction to the muscle-relaxing charm," explained the healer tersely. "Followed by a bad reaction to the potion to reverse its effects. The charm may have been affected by the residual magic left from the reattachment."

"Eh..." began Gabrielle. She told him about Monique's spell attempt, and received a scolding for not mentioning it before his treatment. The healer was, however, relieved to hear about the Seeing, while at the same time somewhat disappointed. He confessed to imaging working up a case-study to publish on the residual healing magic interaction.

"Still, better not to be catatonic, hmm?" said Maltranchier. "Tediuous care." Gabrielle noticed his glance down the hall.

"Eh... Tibault - he will be able to leave soon?"

"Not until he regains consciousness."

"Oh. I thought that because, eh, the screen was moved -"

"No. The holes in his chest and organs finally closed, making the sight of him less nauseating to visitors. Granencole should be able to sit up, but he is still unresponsive," explained Healer Maltranchier as he guided Gabrielle 's injured hand into the cauldron of parafin he had set up. The melted wax blooped, and was hot. Very hot. As Gabrielle yelped and breathed loudly through gritted teeth, the healer continued, "It may be that his head was injured in a way we can not detect. It may be the magic in the unicorn's horn has disrupted the flow of one of his humours. It may even be his conscience has turned his own magic against himself - those who would kill a unicorn are cursed. Or, it may - Would you please stop fussing?"

"Hot," panted Gabrielle. "Too hot."

"The heat prevents the cramps from returning once the charm ends."

Gabrielle had wanted to know why Granencole, or Drago and his accomplice for that matter, had not been transferred to the very good hospital in Paris. But now all she wanted to know is if what smelled like cooked meat was from her or not. She could imagine pulling her arm out of the cauldron, and finding it had been rendered away to nothing, like the meat and bones in pork soup. "Please," whimpered Gabrielle.

To no avail - Monsieur Maltranchier was sitting down to eat an early dinner. Which, thankfully, was the source of the aroma. No sympathy, thought Gabrielle.

v - v - v - v - v

Lord Voldemort leaned against the crenelations at the top of the tower, and looked out over the dark seas. The waves were barely visible in the starlight. He was tired - No, he corrected the thought. The body was tired, not truly himself. Molding and toughening the local chalk to create the solitary tower took longer than it should have, and more effort than it should have. He felt imprisoned in this weakling of a wizard, whose being he so easily subsumed.

The solitude atop the tower was refreshing though. The tower had always been a wizard's first choice in architecture throughout history, if one viewed pyramids as a particularly stable form of tower. The location was, decided the Dark Lord, as good as he had judged the headland, with its large outcrop of chalk, to be. Even the local name was pleasing: Ravenscar. The North Sea on one side, the moors of North Yorkshire on the other - it was a setting ripe for magic.

The first of the magic, resolved Lord Voldemort, would address the woeful state of his corporeal existence. The original method was now lost along with the bones of his treacherous father. The failure had enraged him at the time, but now the Dark Lord was almost glad the filthy things were gone. He was not half-dead as some hoped; he was a being of magic, transcending mere wizards as they did mere men. Usurping the existence of another was becoming trivial, but consent, true consent, was still needed. That meant only the truly weak - in mind, magic, or body - would be willing. What was needed instead was vigor, and an affinity for the magic he knew he was capable of. There - had - to be another way; perhaps the chimera Severus was struggling to create would prove useful.

That determination also led him to reexamine the legends of golems. The ancient stories made it sound as if the clay figures were not just animated, but sentient. Hollow clay men filled with fire was the common theme, but, wondered the reflective Lord Voldemort, suppose it was really clay filled with a magical presence? That was the sort of idea he was after. If, by the sheer force of his will and magic, he was able to use another's body as a puppet, then why not an otherwise inanimate shell? Perhaps having the whole of a body was just a habit of thought.

The Dark Lord let loose a laugh. Standing in the night air, on top of a tower with an expansive view, and contemplating magic no one else had tried before - it reminded him forcefully of the days when he was Head Boy at Hogwarts, when he was beginning to take on the persona of Lord Voldemort. Then, as now, he was working to create himself anew. Politically then, physically now.

The parallel pulled another thought to the fore. History had been shaped many times by lone wizards. Lone wizards, ruling from their towers or pulling the strings of duped muggle kings. These mighty wizards wielded great magic; legendary, almost mythical, magic that was nearly beyond any he himself had done. The feats accomplished in the lost past were unheard of today. Four wizards had together raised Hogwarts Castle; it took six wizards today to create a bungalow.

The decline in the power of wizardry had been noted, and was explained, to the satisfaction of some, by the idea of diluted blood, or rather, bloodlines. It was a sensible theory, thought Lord Voldemort, but his own origins and efforts in recruiting had provided numerous counter-examples. What, considered the Dark Lord, if it was a dilution of magic itself instead? What if magic resided not in the blood, but in the world around? After all, he retained his magical capabilities even as he moved between flesh vessels, so the essence of a wizard was more important than the blood. In addition, resting clearly refreshed the ability to create magic. That meant, reasoned the Dark Lord, that either a wizard's essence was the very source of magic, or it was attuned to the magic of the world, absorbing and concentrating it.

Which brought him back to history's lone wizards. Lone, as in alone or only. Lord Voldemort knew his greatest magical accomplishments had been done in seclusion. Even now, far from the wizard population of London, he could feel himself recovering quickly. The conclusion was obvious. The more wizards in a given area, the less magic was available to each one. As an entity composed of that very magic, realized the Dark Lord, it was as if other wizards were depriving him of food, air. Muggles were vermin, but other wizards were... parasites.

This epiphany sent Lord Voldemort's ruminations racing along a new course. His machinations to have the Ministry of Magic handed to him to rule would debase him; reduce him to the mediocrity of the others. Ridding the world of muggles and handing it to wizardom now appeared to be the polar opposite of attaining magical supremacy. Wizards were the true threat. Muggles were only chattel. The plan would need to be redirected, but subtly.

Muggles - were - vermin, however, so Lord Voldemort celebrated his new understanding by summoning a huge wave of water, higher than the seaside cliffs. He was pleased with his efforts, though the body fatigued. The crashing wave turned out the street lamps by sections in the otherwise darkened town, the splintering of the buildings audible over the water.

v - v - v - v - v

The quiet chiming of the metal galoshes and the soft sounds Impudanae made as he walked beside her would be enough that Monique would normally sit up from her sunning to greet them. Gabrielle guessed that the brunette's current indifference meant that Monique was still upset with her. Well, Gabrielle had a plan to get Monique to forgive her. Hopefully it would work, since Gabrielle had already spent two hours preparing.

Exams were over for the year, and tonight would be the Summer Feast followed by the Rising dance. Then the mass exodus would begin. But for now, there was nothing for the students to do except to try to unwind. Monique did that by setting out her towel by the river and baking in the sun. She was already a glowing bronze, and her curly hair had highlights from the sunlight. Next year they could use the path to the beach. Gabrielle wondered if she would ever see Monique anywhere else. Today Monique wore a new two-piece suit. There was not much to it. Gabrielle had to wonder if Monique's parents knew the girl had it. It was clear why she needed a new one; it was clear to a lot of the boys as well. Monique was well on her way to a spectacular figure. It was something Gabrielle tried not to think about. She knew she was a late-bloomer, and perfectly normal. It just seemed like all the other girls she knew had grown several centimeters upward, and the same outward, while she had barely managed not to shrink. Even Dilly was offering her clothes that no longer fit. Not that that was all bad. Nelle's friend Varook - her real name was Vafara and it was not explained - had given her a stretchy green top trimmed in black lace. Varook claimed that she had got it at Serré, putatively - the - shop for young witches, but Gabrielle recognized the muggle manufacturer's mark. She did not say anything though, because it was a nice top.

"Monique?" asked Gabrielle.

"Hmmph. Come to blame me for Alchemical Arts?"

Since Monique was not looking her way, Gabrielle rolled her eyes. She had hoped Monique would not play the drama queen. The Alchemical Arts exam had been a disaster only because of the Wand Arts exam, really. And because Gabrielle had, she was ashamed to admit, been rather counting on old, insane Professor Pleinbouillois being there to take her paper. A bright smile for him, a little awkward conversation, and Gabrielle had sort of expected he would mark her paper right there. Instead, there had only been the proctor present: a witch from the upper class, one of the ones who had watched George so covetously. She took Gabrielle 's paper with malicious glee. It was not Monique's fault, though. "I am, eh, sorry for what I said," apologized Gabrielle. Which was mostly true. She was sorry if Monique was sorry, otherwise she was not, since what Gabrielle had said was also mostly true.

"Hmmph," huffed Monique again, though less stridently. She did not say anything else for a while. Neither did Gabrielle. She just tugged gently on the unicorn's beard, to keep him in a relaxed mood. "I'm sorry too," said Monique finally, not looking at Gabrielle. "I was only trying to help."

"I know, that is why I am sorry," repeated Gabrielle. She tapped her metal footwear together.

"You brought Impy, didn't you?" asked Monique as she finally turned around. Gabrielle let that go by. She was outside the Palace's wall; of course Impy would be there. That's why she had metal shoes.

"Yes. I, eh, think he will let you ride." After two hours of grooming, the unicorn was in such a mellow mood that Tristen might have been able to touch him. And, eh, live.

"Really? Oh Gi - Gabrielle, you're the best!"

"Move slowly," warned Gabrielle. Monique had jumped up, and Impudanae had tensed. Monique, now with exaggerated slowness, moved next to the unicorn. She began stroking the unicorn's side.

"It is so-o-o sillky," gushed Monique. It ought to be, thought Gabrielle, given the amount of brushing done. Her arms felt like rubber.

"Eh, what are you doing?" asked Gabrielle. Monique was not just using her hands now, but her face and chest as well.

"His hair feels amazing," purred Monique. "Will he really let me ride?"

"I think so. Down, Impudanae. Down. Down," urged Gabrielle. The unicorn had learned two commands during his convalescence. The other was 'open', as in his mouth. They were really more requests than commands. Unicorns were free. Still, the huge animal lowered itself carefully to the ground. It did not make Impy's back any more accessible. Should have brought the ladder, thought Gabrielle. "Eh, do you think you can climb - What are you doing? Oh mon Dieu! Have you lost your senses?"

"You've got to ride a unicorn naked. Everybody knows that," insisted Monique giddily as she undid the strings of her bottoms, which would soon join her top on the ground.

"I don't think that's true. Monique, people will see!"

"No one is around. Find something for me to stand on," ordered Monique. She had tried to hook her leg onto the animal's back in a lewd display, but could not reach. Gabrielle did not know where her best friend was looking, but Gabrielle could see several heads. There were always boys around when Monique went for sun.

"Monique! Please, put you swimsuit back on," begged Gabrielle. Monique reached down to pull a branch over. One of the heads now had a nosebleed. Impy snuffled the air.

"Maybe we could pile up branches..."

"Oh Merlin. Don't bend over! I will do it." It is good that classes are at an end, thought Gabrielle. Monique would surely be too embarrassed to attend them. "_Accio_ log! Eh, no, the other one please. _Accio!_" Thankfully the log was mostly round, and could roll. When it finally reached the girls, Gabrielle transfigured it into something not round. It was not the stool she had envisioned either; it looked like a table that had tried to touch its toes, if it had toes. But it would not shift when Monique climbed up.

"Oh mon Dieu! Oh mon Dieu! I'm really going to ride a unicorn," whispered Monique excitedly as she clambered onto the unicorn's back. She sat up at first, undoubtedly giving her voyeurs a better view, then she slid forward to lie flat on her stomach, her arms and legs dangling over Impy's sides. "Oh - oh - ohhh... I love you, Impy."

This, thought Gabrielle as Monique wriggled away in her own world, may be bad. She lifted up Impy's muzzle; the rest of the beast followed. Monique squealed in delight. "Eh, we will go into the forest, I think," said Gabrielle to the unicorn, his large eyes looking into hers. There would be little to fear while the unicorn was with them, and fewer observers. Monique is definitely going to regret this. She started forward, and turned toward the path that led deeper into the Fey Wild. She stopped short because Impudanae had not turned with her, and now blocked her way. Gabrielle gripped his horn, just in case, and prayed that he had not just noticed Monique and was about to throw her. "It is all right, Impudanae," soothed Gabrielle. Monique was quietly singing children's songs about unicorns. Perhaps there was such a thing as too much sun, even for her. "She has lost her senses. I am sorry about that."

The great unicorn seemed to think on that for a moment, idly chewing Gabrielle 's hair as was his habit, an annoying one at that. And people wondered, thought Gabrielle, why she did not grow her hair out like Fleur had done. Then Impy raised his head up and shook it, looked to the forest, and... bolted.

"Impudanae! Stop!" cried Gabrielle in horror. Monique clung to his back, her upturned rump bouncing as the animal galloped. In a moment they were gone. Gabrielle at first gave chase, but it was useless. First, running shoes were seldom made from iron. And second, wizards and witches used the paths; unicorns did not. She turned around to go back to the Palace, to the stables, for Professor Elevagre, but remembered that Impy did not like him much. She did not want her Outstanding gored! Rather selfish, noted a second thought. She then thought to get Madame Maxime herself. The Headmistress had no trouble working the Abraxans. But that would not work. The Headmistress was, according to Professor Elevagre, out looking at marble for the new tower, and was best not to be near, thought Gabrielle, when she was thinking about towers. And again, added a guilty thought.

Gabrielle was almost, very nearly, pretty sure that Impudanae would not hurt Monique. Not intentionally hurt Monique. She decided to wait there, and guard Monique's clothes. Monique would need them to get back to the Palace.

v - v - v - v - v

Monique reappeared a little more than an hour later as the sun moved, or several hour later as Gabrielle 's guilt-ridden and panicked mind judged. Impudanae was not with her. Monique staggered out of the woods covered in scratches, muddy all up one side of her still naked body, and wearing a beatific grin on her face. Her curly brown hair now had a shock of silver on the right. Gabrielle ran to her. "Monique! Oh Monique, you're alive! What happened? Are you hurt? I am - so - sorry! I didn't think that stupid Impudanae would do that. Are you okay? Please, Monique, say something. Here are your robes. What happened?"

"I became one with the Forest," said Monique quietly.

"Eh, what?"

"I became one with the Forest," repeated Monique grinning.

"Eh, that is, eh, good. Right? Did Impy throw you? You are all scratched up." Monique's eyes were a little glazed, so Gabrielle repeated the question. At least Gabrielle was able to begin to dress the girl.

"The blackberry bushes caught me. I ate some of their berries," explained Monique. "They are faster than they look."

"Do you know what happened to your hair?"

"I became one with the Forest," said Monique, smilingly enigmatically.

"Oh, eh, yes. You said that," nodded Gabrielle. Becoming one with the forest, she noted, apparently addles your brain. "What about Impy?" She pulled Monique along anxiously. Healer Maltranchier had better be in, and Mordant out.

"Oh Gabrielle," breathed Monique in awe. "It was the best thing ever. He took me to a spring in a hidden glen. There was moss everywhere, and fairies and nymphs, and the biggest mushrooms ever. The fairies tried to help me off Impy, but I fell." She indicated the mud.

From Gabrielle 's own experience with fairies, she rather suspected that they had pushed Monique off. Monique had not eaten any of the mushrooms, had she? "Where is Impy? Did he come back with you?" Gabrielle would make sure he knew she was unhappy about what he did.

"Mmmm, no?"

"How did you find your way back then? You didn't even have your wand." Certainly she had had no place to put it.

"I am one with the Forest," explained Monique.

"And that means what?" asked Gabrielle, starting to feel annoyed by her friend's smile. Gabrielle hoped the healer would be able to do something about that. Otherwise Maman was sure to hear about this from Monique's mother. Then Maman would - would not allow her to go on the expedition!

That immediately made Gabrielle feel guilty again, and she dragged Monique along faster.


	6. Phase Two

Chapter Six - Phase Two

Early July.

Madame Maxime picked up two of the three marble cubes on the table before her. The samples were nearly a third of a meter on a side, but the headmistress handled them as easily as she would a large mug. It was so hard to decide, she sighed, and her staff were being completely useless about it. The marble blocks, quarried from three distinct regions of Italy, were not at all 'just white'. The color, in the first place, was a pale alabaster. And there was texture and inclusions to consider too. Madame Maxime had been able to narrow the choices down to three, but now found herself unable to make the final selection. A ballot of the staff had produced a three-way tie, and a loud argument about whether one could vote more than once or not, since that had not been explicitly excluded by a declaration of rules. Madame Maxime sighed again, and let the cubes drop onto the heavy table. The thundering crash gained the teaching staff's attention.

"The final item on the agenda..." started Madame Maxime before she noticed that the latest petition from the house-elves in the library was no longer the final item. She would have to look into new document security spells, preferably from an outside source. "I see Mademoiselle Delacour is to be discussed again."

"If this is about the unicorn, there's no evidence that the animal intended any harm to the Etoilebois girl." declared Professor Elevagre. His voice was slightly muffled by the bandages covering the left side of his face, which was healing well.

"It - is - the third attack on a student," noted Mademoiselle Duedancorp. The two sisters sat together with one set of notes between them.

"Mmm... not at all. Other than to provide something to fall from, and transport to something to fall into, the unicorn did not injure her in any physical way. The blackberry bushes - " argued Healer Maltranchier. He was interrupted.

"Probably Leckerbeeren Scharfedom Vindictus, actually. There's a thicket of it roaming the Fey Wild. Not sure how it got here - it's not native," corrected the Natural Arts professor.

"They make an excellent strudel," offered professor Korbel. It was an uncharacteristic comment from the Martial Arts professor.

"Leckerbeeren, mmm? The berries contain an entertaining alkaloid, I believe," said the healer thoughtfully.

"That is cooked away, yes, during baking. The strudel is vunderful, yes," seconded Professor Festeller.

"The berries would explain much," noted Maltranchier. "Except the hair."

"We are not discussing the unicorn," stated the other Mlle. Duedancorp.

"Are we discussing the lingering presence of dorm seven?" asked Madame Sombrevoir from behind her trademark veil, which lately had been hung with fresh flowers to provide relief.

"Delacour is the source of the contraband," denounced Mlle. Duedancorp.

"I am sure of it!" added the Mlle. Duedancorp next to her.

Madam Maxime looked at the marble samples, and wondered at how they were so much less dense than the teaching staff. "Of course she is the source. One only had to be observant to have noticed it; it is not like the girl was terribly clever at hiding it."

"Then - then why was she not punished?" asked an affronted Mlle. Duedancorp. "Expelled?"

"Which leads directly to the question of the Delacour girl's marks, and the obvious influence she was able to exert!" burst out a different, but equally affronted, Mlle. Duedancorp.

Madame Maxime, in the expectant silence that followed, spared a quick glance for old Taillefer Pleinbouillois, the Alchemical Arts professor, who was upright but had his eyes closed. There had been complaints, but not nearly as many as Fleur Delacour had engendered. Those had almost always been motivated by spite and jealousy in any case. The headmistress cleared her throat. "The Beauxbatons Academy of Magic is as an Abraxan about to take to the air. Our academic reputation grows with each passing year, and our learning environment is safe, secure. This is the moment of destiny; the moment to take our place foremost! The only remaining tarnish is the belief that the atmosphere at the school is too formal, too stuffy."

"Stuffy is not the description I would use for dorm seven."

Madame Maxime ignored the interjection. "To correct those impressions, I have added a number of modern services. That is progressive." She ignored the sour faces as well. "The small quantity of contraband tolerated provides a diversion, and gives this institution a more liberal reputation."

"Provides a diversion? They blew up the Stone tower!" reminded Professor Elevagre.

"A flawed design, as it turns out, to be replaced by something more modern and aesthetic." Madame Maxime lined up the stone blocks. "If we could just decide?"

"Mmm, which is the least expensive? The potion stocks are, in a very, mmm, modern way, liberally depleted." That earned the healer a peeved look.

"Yes, used by the victims of the circumstances arranged by the Delacour girl," accused Mlle. Duedancorp.

"Merciful Morgana, woman! The two clods brought the tower down just for a bit of whiskey, and Granecole earned his fate himself. That wound on Impudanae has only just healed, and poor Natuche barely remembers her own family, let alone the dastardly assault," exclaimed Professor Elevagre. Madame Maxime jotted down a note to check on the next delivery of the liquor. Her babies had had to make due with poor rations for too long.

"Impudanae?"

"That is... the name Gabrielle gave the unicorn."

"You give her a great deal of extra credit, and I believe she spends quite a bit of time at the stables... alone with you."

The Natural Arts professor glared at the pair of identical witches, and the accusation flitted uncomfortably around the room. "She takes the Abraxans out to exercise for me," Elevagre explained with barely concealed anger.

"I ask how," said the Martial Arts professor abruptly. "She has some interest for hexes, but to control an Abraxan..."

"The girl just uses the leads. Even for that devil Montaigne! Headmistress?"

"The arrangement is quite proper. I have seen it myself. Your concern, Mesdemoiselles, is appreciated, but perhaps should have been expressed in a private consultation?"

"I should like to add, before hysterical accusations are implied, that Madame Delacour's daughter possesses a talent for the Divining Arts and works diligently in class. According to my so-called eccentric policies, that earns her the Outstanding," declared Madame Sombrevoire. "By the way, avoid chicken until after the new moon."

"Be that as it may," said Mlle. Duedancorp defensively, "there are irregularities."

"Does that include eggs?"

"The Goblet, yes, it is the one that chose her. That is how the extra credit was awarded. Her written work is good, yes," added Professor Festeller.

"You are planning still to take her on your expedition?" asked Korbel.

"All of the students chosen, yes," said Festeller quickly. "Of course, some are not capable to travel. The plan must complete, yes, for the Goblet's sake."

"There is only Delacour. Kerman, mmm, fell, I suppose, from the Aeneus tower the other morning," informed Healer Maltranchier. "It will be months before he regains his former height."

"This folly must end. The talk of a jinx, it is not so far-fetched," declared Korbel.

"Nein. The Goblet is a valuable magical object, yes, rich in history. It must be re - rehabilitated," insisted the History of Magic professor.

"I quite agree," put in Madame Maxime. "It is an honor for Beauxbatons to be entrusted with the relic, and a demonstration of our superior skill if it can be set right."

"How were you planning to travel?" asked Professor Elevagre suddenly. The question interrupted the scattered whispering and turned all eyes to Festeller.

"I have arranged port-keys, yes, up to the Albanian border. There are a number of possible sites to begin, yes, so we must fly from there."

"On brooms?"

"Er, of course, yes. There are the heavy Dreadnoughts for cargo."

"Gabrielle, that is, Mademoiselle Delacour, can not fly more than ninety seconds on a broom. The brooms refuse to work any longer than that," explained Elevagre.

"Magical devices are a problem. I have noticed this. Even her wand does as it wants," added Korbel. "It is Unglück."

"Perhaps that does not matter? If she leaves with the expedition on the port-keys, then one could quite rightly say that she was on the expedition. Would that not be sufficient?" asked Madame Maxime.

"I... do not know. You think it is Unglück, yes?" said Professor Festeller. He sounded strangely hopeful.

"Let her use Soleil, Headmistress," suggested Elevagre.

"The Abraxan colt? Yes, er, the girl seems to have a way with them, of sorts, but..." hesitated Madame Maxime. They were her babies, after all.

"What is Unglook, please?" asked the Mlle. Duedancorp who was not absently adjusting the other's sleeve.

"Wizards are said to suffer from Unglück when the magic goes wrong," explained Professor Korbel.

"It is a, mmm, debatable syndrome that roughly translates to 'disrupt'. The typical cases are wizards who can not brew potions reliably, or cause magical implements to fail. There was an alleged case described where the wizard in question was barred from using the Floo network. Mostly it is a, mmm, polite synonym for incompetence," opined Maltranchier.

"Ah, potions. That puts us back on topic," said Mlle. Duedancorp. "Mademoiselle Delacour carried an Outstanding in Alchemical Arts into the last exam, did she not?"

Madame Maxime nudged Professor Pleinbouillois as gently as possible. She had inadvertently sent the dozing, aging wizard to the floor before. "What? Did she? I'd have to look at the records," fumbled the old wizard blurrily.

"And yet her efforts on the exam were barely acceptable! How does one explain that?"

"Sorry, is that unusual? Students falling apart on exams? It can be a very anxious time," replied the Alchemical Arts professor.

"I believe there's another explanation! I believe this is a - clear - example -"

"I had, of course, foreseen this," interrupted Madame Sombrevoir loudly. "The girl had managed only an Acceptable in Wand Arts going into the last exam, did she not? And yet this -" Here the veiled witch unrolled a long scroll covered in cramped lines. "- covers year seven's subjects comprehensively, as well as concepts only introduced in the sixth, fifth years. How does one explain that?"

Oh, the drama, sighed Madame Maxime during the awkward silence that again followed. She supposed the greater enrollment and, especially, the higher percentage of less disciplined males students had been a large strain, along with the tumult caused by the Stone tower's fall. Their habit of moving the library's furniture about was a constant source of angst for, at least, the Palace's house-elves. But now the term was over, and, though obviously the girl's academic efforts were important, there were other, greater demands for attention. Such as the architect, whom Madame Maxime was not quite sure about. He was a retiring, small man. The headmistress had always imagined a larger, more flamboyant personality for that sort of position. In any case, the sisters Duedancorp looked like they had found their voice. It was best to finish here and get the staff on to the holidays. It was time for management.

"Compared to Fleur, the girl is barely competent! I've made allowances all year for her," complained the accused Mlles. Duedancorp. It was easy to tell they were upset, since every other word came from a different throat.

"Ah! So she is judged to a different standard than the other students? Finally, the evidence you've been seeking."

"It is obvious what has happened, my dears," boomed Madame Maxime. It was not a voice that recognized interruptions. "Mademoiselle Delacour simply made a choice to shift her energies away from the Alchemical Arts to the Wand Arts. Perhaps an Exceeds Expectations in both, to account for the extra effort in one, and the lack of effort in the other? It seems simple, and we really should press on."

v - v - v - v - v

Gabrielle stomped along the hall to her bedroom in Delacour Manor. Each hand held a wand aimed at the floor, and she called out _Finite Incantatem _with each step. Each silent step, though she wore the metal over-shoes for maximum impact. Her incantations had no apparent effect on the spells protecting the floor. Maman, griped a thoroughly annoyed Gabrielle to herself, has too much time on her hands. Gabrielle reached the door to her room, having failed to make an emphatic racket or to have even slightly scuffed the hallway. She stepped into her room and slammed the door shut. The door, for its part, closed gently. Gabrielle wrenched it back open, and shouted, "Slam!"

It came out not as the wrathful thundering she had wanted, but more of a childish screech. Gabrielle immediately regretted the outburst - it was embarrassing. She closed the door again, and flopped onto her bed. Things were not going well. The strategy she had decided upon should have worked, but Maman was not acting correctly. Gabrielle had feigned excitement for the stupid expedition for the first week, gushing about, yes, Professor, yes, Festeller, yes, and the Goblet of Fire, and speculating endlessly about the exciting adventures that awaited her. The goal was to convince Maman that the expedition was something that she actually wanted, something that could be taken away in Phase Two.

Except, thought Gabrielle morosely, Maman seemed to have even more enthusiasm for the ridiculous outing than she herself had been able to pretend to have. That enthusiasm, and the letter from Festeller explaining the need to pass as a muggle, required shopping, and the purchase of many sets of bland, tan outfits covered in pockets. Gabrielle had no idea where Maman had ever seen muggles wear such things. Modeling the worst of the outfits, Gabrielle thought she looked like a small, upright cabinet. Maman even found and bought a helmet from a muggle antique shop. It fitted Gabrielle like a #2 cauldron. The outfits all had skirts too, which, to Gabrielle, did not seem practical for crawling around rough tunnels and over rubble. Her Maman dismissed those scenarios.

When Phase Two began, Gabrielle had guessed that, at most, two or three days of poor behavior was all it would take before Maman would threaten to forbid the awful trip. Then a Weasley Wildfire down the toaster would be the coup de grace. Instead, every rudeness was met with a sad, pained smile and the explanation that she was 'hormonal' or 'going through a phase.' It was a little humiliating to be pointlessly mean about something, then have one's mother completely dismiss the behavior by saying, "It's just puberty, I'm afraid." Instead of being treated unfairly as a child, Gabrielle found herself being ignored as a young adult. Ha - she was really acting like an old child, thought Gabrielle sardonically.

The boorish behavior was hard to keep up, also, because Gabrielle realized as soon as she had unpacked at Delacour Manor that she had missed everything. Even Madame Chouisse's cat, which had yet to acquire an actual name, and even the nasty little toaster that she had planned to blow up. Shopping around beautiful Paris with Maman, if one overlooked the actual purchases themselves, was the best. Maman was intrigued by her ability to sense the Hidden Realm, and together they took lunch at fabulous restaurants, whose chefs went all out for Maman, hoping for visions. A success made Gabrielle swear off foie gras. Gabrielle had even convinced her mother to visit Gaston's coffeehouse. Briefly, because Maman did not like the shabby look of it, or the strong smell of it, which Gabrielle found sublime. Maman was also not comfortable with the idea of a roomful of old men who somehow knew her daughter. Gabrielle did receive another kilo of coffee from Gaston, who would not take her francs, and a medal taken off a German soldier from Francois. She had seen him there on her only other visit, but the old man had said nothing then. Gabrielle had no idea what it was supposed to mean, but thanked him anyway with a smile, because that was what Maman had taught her.

Unfortunately, Gabrielle knew she was running out of time. The expedition was set to leave at the start of August, because many muggles vacationed then and any local villagers would expect to see odd strangers. That only left a couple of weeks to try her back-up plan, which was to get Papa to ban her participation. It would be difficult, knew Gabrielle, since Maman was in favor of the trip and had even bragged about it to Aunt Laurel.

It was times like these that Gabrielle felt she should be able to take comfort in George's letters. Except those were even more incorrect. The letters were friendly, frequently funny, especially when George wrote about things she could not tell Fred, but not... deep. Still, thought Gabrielle, he does write. And regularly, the letters arriving shortly after the full moon - Allie was right about that. George's letters were not monotonous, as if he was politely waiting for her to get tired of corresponding, but they were also not becoming more intimate. And Gabrielle was too afraid to ask him about his feelings toward her directly, as he might give the wrong answer. She wished...

She wished for a lot of things, and one of those was not to have wasted her apparently sole successful scrying attempt on that disgusting Wormtail creature. The subsequent efforts to scry George, just a little, were complete failures, without so much as a flicker or ripple in the puddle of black ink. Neither wand seemed to help, nor did trying to use both at the same time. Madame Sombrevoir had not been any help either, citing school policy. Maman was beginning to notice the ink consumption. Fortunately, there was no such thing as a locked door or cabinet to Gabrielle, at least at Delacour Manor. Not that Maman had not been trying. Gabrielle just found it extremely vexing that what had seemed to come naturally as a talent now completely eluded her. She would have blamed Fred, just because, but from what George wrote Fred had enough troubles.

There was a knock at the bedroom's door. Gabrielle tried to decide if she should still be rebellious, or just petulant, or give up on Phase Two altogether. Maman might take her shopping again, and there was Papa to work on. She would have to unbury one of her old, despised dresses for him. It would be best to catch him after a second glass of wine, also. Another knock. "Gabrielle?"

The voice was not Gabrielle's mother, which made things easier. Gabrielle rolled off the bed and quickly opened the door. "Monique! What are you doing here? Come in!" Gabrielle noticed that her best friend wore a bow in her hair, mostly covering the shock of white. The addition certainly did not make it less noticeable.

"My mother doesn't want to leave me on my own," explained Monique, rolling her eyes in disgust. She pulled the bow from her hair and let it drop. "Let's go outside."

It was Gabrielle's turn to roll her eyes. She knew why Monique's mother did not want to leave Monique alone. It was because Monique would take her clothes off and head outdoors if she could. "You have to stay dressed. You know this," warned Gabrielle.

"We could go over by the trees - "

"No."

"I wish you could have brought Impudanae home," said Monique wistfully. Gabrielle noticed that Monique no longer just used 'Impy.' Another wish she had was to know what had happened to her friend in the forest. Other than becoming one with it. "Come on, let's get some sun. You're still so pale."

"Not every part of you needs sun," chided Gabrielle. But she led the way outside, after determining how to avoid her own mother.

v - v - v - v - v

Gabrielle lay near the apple tree, on a blanket, clad only in her underwear. That was all right, because of the wards for muggles and the relative isolation of the manor. Monique lay directly on the grass by the old tree, clad only in a bra. A real bra, not the token garment Gabrielle wore. Gabrielle had been stunned to see that her friend had worn nothing beneath her slacks. That seemed unhygienic. Monique did not share the blanket; she had not even cleared the ground of early apple fall. The way she sprawled on the ground made Gabrielle believe Monique was trying to become one with the grasses.

"What are you going to do in the winter?" blurted Gabrielle. While she herself was, and would probably always be, pale, Monique had now reached her peak form. Everywhere.

"I'll wear my boots, and a hat," replied Monique. "You missed the Rising Dance?"

Gabrielle had skipped the last dance after exams. "It was nothing. I was, eh, worried about you," answered Gabrielle. That was certainly true, but it was also true that there were rumors that she had made Impy attack Monique. Those were ridiculous, but Gabrielle did not want to deal with the stares and whispers.

"Is it true about you and Silvain? You never said!"

"What? Monique, please."

"They said he broke up with you, and that's why you did not go to the dance."

"Have you lost your senses?" asked Gabrielle. Which was, Gabrielle realized sheepishly, a little rude because her friend had in fact lost her senses. She was, after all, not on the comfortable blanket but was laying half-naked on top of hard, little, sun-dried apples without complaint. "We did not, eh, breakup. We were never together!" It was that stupid Roni. She would get him to try Fred's next big idea when the term started in the fall.

"I think he has a crush on you," said Monique. "Spend less time in the library next year. Have you seen Philippe at all?"

"Yes," sighed Gabrielle. That had been weird. Philippe, her childhood friend who was a squib, in case she was one too, had always been loud and brash. At least, he was when he was not sneaking around and showing Gabrielle how to open locks with the little bent wires. Philippe was always trying to show that he was as good as any wizard. Now he was loud and arrogant, acting like he was better. Gabrielle did not follow it exactly, but his swagger had a lot to do with galleons and spread out sheets on his computer. Part of what made his explanation confusing was that she could see that everything was right there, all together. The change had to be due to the Weasley twins, suspected Gabrielle. Even Monsieur Toulier, Philippe's guardian, was learning to drive a lorrie at his ward's urging.

"They all just want to show off," assured Monique after Gabrielle described the visit. "Maybe Philippe has a crush on you too."

"Eh, maybe," said Gabrielle. She had never even thought about that. "Have you heard from, eh, Tristen?" A rustling made her turn her head. A squirrel was staring at her from only a half meter away.

"Um, yeah," replied Monique. The lack of enthusiasm in her voice told Gabrielle that Tristen was on his way out. Again. She turned back to Monique when she heard the snap. The last of the brunette's clothing was coming off.

"Monique," complained Gabrielle. "You can't go around naked all the time. People saw you, boys saw you, at school."

"Clothes are artificial. I need to feel the natural world," explained Monique diffidently, sounding like it was a well-used argument, that needed to be made often.

"Could you not stuff grass into your underwear?" asked Gabrielle. She supposed she would become used to being near someone who was constantly naked, but for now it made her a little uncomfortable. She looked back to the squirrel - no, squirrels. There were two now. Did they bite? One of the pair dropped a moldy looking acorn and nosed it toward her. "Eh, thank you?" said Gabrielle gently, though she did not mean it.

That had been the wrong thing to say. Gabrielle was laying propped up on her elbows, and the two animals dove into the space under her chin before she could move. They twisted around each other in excitement. Fleas, thought Gabrielle in horror. Just as suddenly the creatures scrambled away, going half way up the apple tree in a moment. It was as an effective alarm as Pepi-Z, who was jumping on his tether in her hair.

"Gabrielle? Did you not hear me call?" complained Madame Delacour. "I need -"

"Yes, what is it?" asked Gabrielle. The tone of the question did not come across sounding annoyed, or impatient, since she had not had time to get into character. If that should still be the plan, thought Gabrielle. Anyway, Maman was staring at Monique in surprise and would not have noticed.

Madame Delacour shook her head slightly, making her hair shimmer and dance in the afternoon sun, something Gabrielle's hair could never do. "There is a goblin from Gringotts here - from Britain - to see you."

"A goblin from Gringotts? Why would a goblin from Gringotts - from Britain, from London?!" One advantage to being pale is that others do not immediately notice if all the blood drains from one's face. This happened to Gabrielle now. There was only one reason a goblin would come from Britain for her. The goblin had come for the silver Gringotts inkpot that Fred had given - had forced on her! Would she be carried off like in the old stories, just for that? No, the goblin had come because George and Fred had been forced - tortured - into telling where they had learned the hinge trick. And, with panic building, Gabrielle realized that she had left her wand in her room! How could she escape without it? Not that being able to conjure a flame or transfigure thin materials into common household objects, more or less, offered much protection. "Tell them I am not here! Make them go, Maman," begged Gabrielle as she desperately wriggled into her denims. Maybe, noted a wandering thought, I did grow.

"Don't be such a sil -" started Madame Delacour before catching herself. She too was tiring of the battles. "The goblin has come from London; I'm sure it is important. It has to do with the Winterhall estate?"

Gabrielle stopped dressing and mentally rehearsing her heroic, lightning raid to retrieve her wand and handbag before fleeing to, to... "Eh, what? What does that mean?" asked Gabrielle. Monique was reluctantly dressing as well. She stopped, considered the grasses growing tall around the roots of the tree, then tucked a handful into her slacks.

"We will find out when he tells us," shrugged Gabrielle's mother. "You were expecting something else." It was not a question, but nearly an accusation.

"Eh, no," replied Gabrielle quickly. Her face heated up as her mother stared. Merde, thought Gabrielle.

Fortunately, Monique's actions provided a distraction. Madame Delacour expressed the very certain opinion that Madame Etoilebois would definitely not approve of Monique keeping landscaping down her clothes. Gabrielle suspected that, at the moment, for a start, anything that kept Monique's clothes on would be fine.

v - v - v - v - v

The goblins, for there were two of them, stood in the parlor. They were dressed formally, and similarly, in old-fashioned black vests and suits, and held black leather satchels. It was, however, easy to tell them apart. One was older, the sparse hair on his head graying, and everything from the drape of his clothes to the luster on the leather of the satchel gave the impression of wealth and authority. The younger of the pair was just a pale imitation, and was in danger of fading into the background. Like I do, thought Gabrielle, when I am next to Fleur.

"I do beg your pardon gentlem-mmm," said Madame Delacour. "I did not realize my daughter was outside. This is Gabrielle."

"[She apologizes for the delay; the girl was outside,]" translated the younger goblin.

"[Yes, well,]" muttered the older goblin. He held up a photograph in front of his face, and looked between it and Gabrielle. "[There is a resemblance, yes. Couldn't have just used paints, could he? Wizards. Ask her.]"

"[Pardon, sir, but ask her what?]" hesitated the younger goblin.

"[I, eh, speak English,]" said Gabrielle.

"[Do you now? Fine. A good choice for business. I am Korak, Master Counter of Gringotts,]" said the older goblin, not changing his serious expression at all. Korak was his business name; he was born Melew Pissar, a name which would not have taken him far. Also, technically, he was - a - Master Counter, one of several. But what did wizards need to know? The younger goblin's expression almost remained the same, but a look of irritation passed through it as his sole function just became redundant.

"[Eh, I am Gabrielle Delacour. I am -]"

"[How did you come to know Granary Winterhall?]" interrupted Korak. Wizards and witches could prattle on, and he had taken on this simple errand just to shop underground Paris and visit the old, goblin catacombs beneath Notre Dame. More time for this, less for the other.

"[I, eh, met Monsieur Winterhall at ze, eh, my sister's wedding,]" explained Gabrielle.

"[Yes,]" said the goblin, more to forestall the likely tedious description of the event to come than in knowledgeable agreement. "[How long did you know him?]"

"[Not even as long as one dance! He, eh, is insane,]" blurted Gabrielle, then realized what she had said. Maman's lip thinned at the rudeness. There would be words later.

The Master Counter nodded his head. There was Veela blood in the family - one only need look at the mother to see that. While a bit tall for his tastes, Korak could feel some part of his mind suggesting that the elegant Madame Delacour might be interested in the ancient tunnels as well. The daughter, on the other hand, did not have the same presence. Certainly not enough of one to drive a sane wizard to create a portrait of her on his kitchen table. "[Was insane, possibly. Probably. Is this you?]"

Gabrielle looked at the offered photograph. It was her face, done in seeds and bits of things, as George had described. Underneath, more seeds, and possibly acorns, picked out the words 'To her I leave all.' A small bird landed on the table in the photo, and pecked at the seeds outlining the ear of her portrait. Gabrielle gave the picture a shake to shoo the bird away. "[I, eh, zink so.]" Just to make it clear, she added, "[Zat color does not match my hair, zhough.]"

"[It appears to be a recognizable, if unorthodox, legal bequeath,]" determined Korak.

"[Eh, what?]"

"Monsieur Winterhall has died. That appears to be hist last will, found and preserved before it was consumed by vermin. The Winterhall estate is yours." The younger goblin jumped in with a translation, to the annoyance of the very superior he was hoping to impress.

"I have never heard of such a thing," said Madame Delacour suspiciously. "It was only a dance."

"[I do not want it,]" said Gabrielle quickly. It was just too creepy.

"[The Winterhall estate is not as grand as it sounds. It consists, in fact, mostly of the small farming cottage just outside of Chulmleigh, and the remaining land it sits on. Also, forty galleons, twelve sickles, and three knuts. The estate will be held in trust until you are of-age, maintenance costs drawn from it as necessary, of course.]" Korak opened his satchel and withdrew a large scroll. He ignored Gabrielle's hand and passed it to her mother. "[This is the standard trust agreement.]" Uncharacteristically, he gave her a quick smile. This, unknown to him, showed a lot more pointy teeth than humans were generally comfortable with. The younger goblin added a translation.

v - v - v - v - v

It was, thought Gabrielle, a long document. Long enough for two Floo calls to Papa, who was uncomfortable with the whole thing, and long enough for Gabrielle to be sent to the kitchen to prepare a tea, since Korak was from England. A bored Monique, who was still dressed, helped. Dirt occasionally tumbled from the legs of her slacks. Gabrielle did not say anything about that, and quietly swept it up while Monique dealt with the recalcitrant kettle.

The summation of the document, to Gabrielle's ears, was that in several years she would be the owner of a sad, old cottage hundreds of kilometers away, with no money to pay for upkeep. She also could not refuse it. Everyone assured her that she could, if that was what she really wanted, but everyone also had a story to tell about the awful things that happened to those who went against the wishes of the dead. There was meter of parchment repeating the restrictions on selling the property too, going on about residual magic, latent magic, and whatever magic. All it meant to Gabrielle was that she should be more wary of crazy old men, because she was going to be stuck with the house. There did not seem to be any other way, though, so Gabrielle picked up her quill to finally sign the dull thing.

"[Stop,]" barked Korak. "[You can not use that.]"

"[Why, eh, not?]" asked Gabrielle. She looked at the nib. It was a new quill, one Maman had bought while shopping for tan clothes with pockets, before Phase Two.

"[That ink does not even meet muggle standards. It is mere sludge compared to proper Gringotts ink.]" The younger goblin pushed a silver inkpot toward her. Gabrielle stared at it. The florid letter on the side of the vessel was familiar, and a memory flashed in her mind like a lightning bolt. Magical ink, thought Gabrielle. I am such an idiot.

Gabrielle quickly, and, to her mother's grimace, a bit messily, cleaned the quill's nib. She dipped it into the proffered inkpot, considered the black drop's potential, and very nearly signed her name Gabrielle Jeanne Weasley. She had already started the very cool 'W' she had perfected before she caught herself, and so it turned into an unusual script 'D.' Unusual and distinctive, decided Gabrielle. She would have to practice that too.

v - v - v - v - v

It was night before Gabrielle had assembled everything that she needed, had the time to assemble everything. Monique needed more sun, and was more interested in the late Monsieur Winterhall than Gabrielle had ever been. Gabrielle, for her part, tried to get Monique to be more discerning about what 'nature' she put in her underwear. Flowers, in Gabrielle's view, were good. Leaves were fine, also, and the grass stems, if there was nothing else. Roots with clumps of dirt and twigs, though, did not seem like a good idea. Especially if one left a trail of debris on Maman's floors. Monique argued that all of the natural world's aspects were one. That meant nothing to Gabrielle. She got Monique to at least agree that, while they were one, certain aspects needed better containment.

Once Monique's mother had returned to collect her daughter, Gabrielle's own mother decided it was time to discuss Monsieur Winterhall and what men like him were looking for. Thanks to the little book Gabrielle's grandmother had accidentally given her, Gabrielle knew, on a graphic, theoretical basis, what Maman was thinking of. Arguing that these old wizards were simply insane did not help, and explaining that they often claimed that she reminded them of their wives or daughters only increased Maman's concern.

Then, sighed Gabrielle recalling, her father had arrived home from the Ministry. If Maman was concerned, then Papa was obsessed. He vowed to launch investigations into the background of every male listed on the wedding guest list, and to acquire an emergency port-key for Gabrielle to use if she were trapped by these wily predators. Though Papa had obviously lost his senses, Gabrielle stopped arguing. This would clearly work in her favor. There were, after all, bound to be old men in the hinterlands of Albania. Strange old men. Strange, foreign, old men. Surely Papa, thought Gabrielle, would save her from Festeller's expedition. That topic would need to be approached carefully, though, since Gabrielle's goal was to return to Britain, which was also full of strange, foreign, old men.

Gabrielle dropped in two drops of the goblin ink from the inkpot Fred had stolen and given to her. Gabrielle sat on the floor; Poisseux watched with interest. The first time she had attempted scrying, with success, she had used a small puddle of the ink. This time, Gabrielle was approaching it as an alchemical problem, diluting it with water to find the least amount of ink necessary. She just could not imagine a circumstance where she would be able to get more of the precious black solution, and so needed to carefully conserve the resource. She wished she had a smaller pan, but all the small pans Maman had were decorated with little engraved faces, which would alert the cook to the pan's temperature and suggest seasonings. Or, when Gabrielle handled them, cry out and complain bitterly that they would surely be dented. Instead, Gabrielle settled on a long, narrow pan, made from copper, that Maman used for cooking fish. A pan, while using more water, and therefore more ink, was required because the sides would prevent Gabrielle from accidentally putting her face into the ink again. The Gringotts ink was very difficult to clean off skin, and Gabrielle instinctively knew that it would be better if Papa did not find out she was trying to See George. Papa might just explode.

Because, thought Gabrielle with a bit of a giggle, there was no way of telling where she might scry her... Well, he does write, she reminded herself. She might See him working at his shop, sleeping at his and Fred's flat, or eating at the Burrow. Or, came a more excited thought, taking a bath or getting dressed. Gabrielle had tried to bury that thought, but those were possibilities. Thankfully, thought Gabrielle as she took a steadying breath, I am mature.

Two drops of ink were not enough, neither were four, six, or even ten drops. The water was black, yes, but Gabrielle could not make anything out. She tried a little more ink, sniffed the smelly old shirt that had just better be one of George's, and waved her wand pointlessly. Poisseux was settling into a disappointed angle. What time was it, anyway? Gabrielle was sure she had heard her parents head up to their bedroom, but that had been at least four drops ago. It was clear she would have to find a smaller pan; even drop by drop the ink would not last. Not that it would matter if it did not actually work. Another two drops, and another whiff of the shirt, her guidepost to the Hidden Realm. Merlin, what had he been doing in it? Would all his laundry smell like this? Gabrielle didn't think that was likely. She could remember the scent of him quite vividly. She was, as Madame Sombrevoir had said, very grounded in the sensory humours. Gabrielle was confident of an Outstanding in Divining Arts, but could she do the same next year if she could not un-ground herself?

More ink, decided Gabrielle, and perhaps a little more focus. She tried to remember all she had done the last time, laying in Ginny's bedroom with that grotesque pillow from Ron. Nothing obvious came from the memory. So in went another measure of ink. I should have used a tea cup, realized Gabrielle crossly, or one of the ceramic ramekins. Those would have multiplied the effect of each ink drop. This pan was too large.

It was, of course, just as Gabrielle was about to give up that the blackened water she had stared at for hours flickered. And flickered again. Gabrielle was hopeful, but knew it could also just be the candle guttering as it burned down. Except that the flashes were rapid and very regular, which was very unlike a candle. Gabrielle sniffed the shirt again, and put her face to the pan.

At first there was nothing beyond the rhythmic bursts of light, but as they became brighter Gabrielle was able to discern more of the scene. She could pick out faces, only during the flashes at the start, then even with the low ambient light. Success! She did have talent. Gabrielle could see George quite clearly, and a young woman who looked like she was nibbling his ear. The point of view was from just in front of the pair, lower down. They might have been in some sort of muggle club - Fleur had described such a place she had once gone to with Bill. That was not important. What was important was that George, her... well, was there with this woman. Gabrielle's eyes were immediately drawn to the aspects the woman had that she did not. One was cleavage, or at least the ridiculous amount the woman was displaying. Another was the beaded hoop pierced through an eyebrow. This was bad. This was wrong. This was -

Expected, suggested the traitorous thought, or at least it should have been. It was, perhaps, time to be realistic. Gabrielle glumly watched as she took stock of herself. She did not live in Britain, she could not go to such a club for years, and she might never overflow an outfit like that. At least, not without Mrs. Udderly's pink helpers. The woman shifted - oh mon Dieu - she had a navel piercing as well.

While Gabrielle focused on the usurper, a second thought had not. Now that thought urged her to note that George did not appear to be particularly interested in the one tonguing his ear. He was far more interested in something just beyond where Gabrielle watched from, or beyond where Gabrielle seemed to be watching from, since she was obviously still at home. Was it possible, wondered Gabrielle, for her to turn around and look? Should she turn the pan, or move around to the other side? The woman noticed George's distraction, looked put out, and brought his face around to her lips. He pulled backed, pushed some muggle money into her hands, and sent her off. Gabrielle wished that she could hear what he had said, since the woman looked rather angry about it. Perhaps he had informed her that his heart was already taken. Maybe sound would come with practice. George reached over and pulled Gabrielle closer. The images shifted crazily, but it made her heart leap. George had chosen her over that over-done tart.

Wait, thought Gabrielle in confusion, how can he do that? I am not there. She pulled her face back from the pan a little, which allowed her to see the edges of the vision, a sharp, circular boundary. The view of George and the lights swirled and rocked. It was, thought Gabrielle, a lot like looking into a glass, only from the other side. It was exactly like that, a thought that alarmed Gabrielle as a squinting George was obviously intending to look into that glass. Philippe had told her that being invisible meant that an object did not block or reflect light. Gabrielle slapped out the flame on the candle, hissing as the hot wax burned her fingers. She could still see George's face and the pulsing lights, but with the candle no longer silhouetting her, could he see her?

Perhaps he could not, though not for a lack of trying. It had to be a muggle club, since he did not reach for his wand. George swirled the glass, and Gabrielle's portal, for a moment or two before setting it down. Did he, wondered Gabrielle, look disappointed? She leaned closer again to see more, and saw her rival return with a drink for George, tall and amber, in one hand and a new man, tall and skinny, in the other. The new date looked a little concerned by George's presence, but George raised his fresh drink as if to toast them and gave the woman a wave. It was not a wave he got in return.

It was all very puzzling to Gabrielle, who could not see why George would go to a club with someone he could so easily dismiss. Did he just become bored with her? Things were clearer when Fred arrived with Verity. Verity, Gabrielle noticed, was wearing clothing to make Fred, eh, see her. They did not really suit her. It was, it had been, a double-date. Fred looked exasperated, so Gabrielle concluded that he had tried his hand at match-making. A decidedly pathetic attempt, in her opinion. Which was good, of course. Fred might have meant well, considered Gabrielle. Except, Fred was... Fred. It may be, thought G, that George was lonely and depressed without her after all. One would think that would come through in the letters, but, she supposed, George was burying his aching heart so she did not feel bad about leaving him. Very sweet, but unnecessary. Gabrielle resolved to redouble her efforts to get out of the expedition, and to get back to the Burrow, lest George's depression lead him to do something rash. Like accept Fred's help.

The image sloshed again, and Gabrielle shifted back from the inky water. How did one end the scrying? She could see the scene shifting; someone had picked up the glass. Even through the ripples Gabrielle could see it had been Verity, and her face grew larger and larger in the pan until she opened her mouth and everything went black.


	7. I See You

Chapter Seven - I See You

The magical entity that was Lord Voldemort exulted. The magic, his plans, and fate itself had not felt so aligned in years. The isolation of the tower at Ravenscar was proving to be a brilliant decision. Without the lesser wizards pulling at his magic, at his very being, he was at his most powerful. Wizards were the apex of humankind, and at the apex there was room for only one. There simply was no difficulty here: the more wizards there were, the less magic there was for Lord Voldemort. Only the most useful, most loyal among them would be granted a portion of his essence. I am the Omega, thought Lord Voldemort, the last wizard the world needs.

The body used by Lord Voldemort panted. It lay on the bare floor of the hardened chalk tower, a victim of lack of sleep and intermittent eating habits. The feeble protestations of the physical form were easily quieted by various potions, though, so the current exhaustion did not unduly concern the Dark Lord. The dim spark that was the true owner was concerned, but then remembered he had been trying to lose a little weight anyway. The sensations of the immense magic made up for it, and he had learned so much.

The product of this most recent exhaustion stood on the table, gently swaying. Its form would be considered unexpected. It was, in fact, a two-foot bronze statue of a circus clown, which was now able to stand free of its base, blinking and staring vacantly. Not unlike, noted Lord Voldemort, many of the wizards he dealt with. The pins for juggling were still in the diminutive jester's hands, because they and the hands were all of a piece.

The prone Dark Lord raised the head he currently used, and considered the final step. Research into the manufacture of golems had been nearly fruitless. Most descriptions recorded in the various grimoires were translations of translations of much older scrolls, and recounted the escapades of the tragically curious, possibly as a cautionary tale. Or an amusing anecdote. Those involved were not, however, the manufacturers, and so their actions were mostly instructive in how to make a golem stop being one. The problem was that golems were often associated with religious traditions, of the sort that were apt to persecute wizards and witches as heretics. Nearly fruitless, though, was just a British phrase for success. Lord Voldemort had come across the concept of the munuscrux in his furtive searches. It was an intriguing concept: a vessel, a resting place for a wandering soul. But munuscrux were put to trivial uses - adding 'personality' to clocks, mirrors - even candlesticks. What was the point in that? He could see the similarity to the horcrux, and to the concept of the golem, though without the servitude aspect. It was likely he was the only wizard capable of such insight.

The singular stumbling block had been the requirement of craftsmanship. Manual craftsmanship, not the fine transfiguration and conjuration a wizard was capable of, nor the mere product of muggle factories. It had been, in and of itself, a difficult search. Modern art seemed to eschew any of the required effort entirely, the sculpted forms being nearly formless or poorly welded assemblies of scrap. Reviewing recent winners of the Turner prize certainly lowered Lord Voldemort's estimation of human worth.

He had found what he sought, unexpectedly, on the ruined high street of Ravenscar itself. The nearly constant noise muggles were able to make, particularly when using their machines for, in this case, reconstruction, had really begun to grate. Lord Voldemort had ventured into the wretched village, sure in the anonymity of the latest body, to see exactly which machine was making the loud staccato sound in order to destroy it utterly. The mission was forgotten when he had stopped at the quite deserted artist's shop, where a matronly muggle made quite detailed, realistic, and overpriced sculptures in unpopular genres. She reminded the Dark Lord quite a lot of Hepzibah Smith, and Lord Voldemort could still charm. The artist, lapping up the praise and adulation, was happy to sell him the piece and was - certainly - open to commissions. Lord Voldemort was satisfied to have a test piece at last, and cared not a whit about the four hundred pounds it cost, because they were not his pounds.

The cast statue was hollow, and it was internally that the magical craftsmanship was applied. The joints were made to move and flex, the eyes and mouth made ready. Strands of magical energy, like physical sinew, ran to a central nexus in the chest. It had been difficult, exceedingly difficult, and, thought Lord Voldemort, not another wizard alive was capable of it. All that remained was the spell to actually open the offering to the world of the dead, to invite a willing soul in. That would not be the incantation he would use on the larger piece he planned. These efforts were to assure the figure could be animated correctly.

Lord Voldemort forced the legs he used to stand. The goblins, he knew, could toughen metal to an extreme. That was a skill he would have to prise from them. Did those creatures draw on his magic as well? The Dark Lord suffered a potion to calm the tremors in the arms, then, _Foris Templum Incunabli_! A cone of bright light shone from the tip of the clown's pointed hat, there to funnel the gauzy haze above the statue into the sculpture's interior. There was some movement in the wispy fog, more a determined wafting, really, and with a moment the cone narrowed to a beam of light and disappeared. The metal clown collapsed, then twitched and jerked in great spasms before finally becoming inert. The Dark Lord raised the wand he held warily, but the bronze figure slowly gathered itself up and stood. A hissing whistle escaped the sculpted lips, then more guttural sounds. The animated statue went quiet, then turned to face its uncertain creator. "Hello Tom."

v - v - v - v - v

Severus Snape sat concealed by a Disillusionment charm and the supposition that no one would look for him in a tree. He had an excellent view of the nearby car park, which really held no interest for him. Although, he did occasionally wonder where a muggle had to go that made moving nearly a ton of noisy, mechanized metal worth the effort.

Two pops echoed from the other direction from the massed vehicles, sounds that Snape had been expecting. He did not reveal himself just yet, but would wait until whoever approached entered the warded area below him. Which the new arrivals did directly, overly confident, in the spy's opinion, that the close proximity to the muggles would prevent a Ministry action. While a massed response was unlikely, an ambush required only a competent few. The former professor dropped his concealment and swooped to the ground behind the pair using the flight spell. Snape had set himself the task of improving his landing skills, which really should not be left to the end, and was now quite accomplished. The two turned in surprise, too late to survive, if that had been Snape's intent. One was Antonin Dolohov; the other was Thorfin Rowle. Dolohov, who had not yet lost all traces of the gauntness that an extended stay in Azkaban left on a man, had his wand up. Rowle, the more robust of the two, did not.

"Ho, Snape, you bloody well gave me a start!" guffawed Rowle.

"You are careless," admonished Snape. "Both of you. This could have been a trap."

"Go on. We knew it was you what set it up. Anyway, how can you be sure it's us, eh? Careless yourself, right?"

"The ward keeps out those who do not bear the Dark mark. That is why I am sure."

"Yeah? Well it's two again' one, and that's why I'm sure," blustered Rowle.

"You know where our lord is?" asked Dolohov abruptly.

Severus regarded the man for a moment. Some left Azkaban as barely animate shells, cowed into submissiveness. Most left the prison with less sanity than they entered with. The rest just hardened, in outlook, emotions, and actions. "I know where I was instructed to meet him, yes." That was not enough from the look in Antonin's eyes. "That was on the coast of the North Sea."

"What's going on Snape? Why are we wasting time?" asked Dolohov sharply.

"Yeh Snape. You fancy yourself his right-hand wizard these days. What is the plan?" added Thorfin.

"The Dark Lord has called for my service often as of late, but I would not presume that I was more than a finger on that right hand," said Snape. This was not modesty. There had been a Durmstrang contingent, for example, that he now heard nothing about. "The plan is the Dark Lord's - are you questioning him?"

"No! 'Course not. But it's bloody boring going after a few muggles at a time. Where's the fun in that? Doing the football stadium, now, that was something," said Rowle with relish.

"Why has he not summoned us, Severus? The talk is of the election, of this WASI party - it has the support of the old families and the blood traitors alike. This Scrofulus-scarred upstart Chairman, who dares challenge our lord, needs to be shown the true power of Lord Voldemort!" said Dolohov vehemently.

"Enough," said Snape. What, he wondered, was the real concern here? Was it the lack of slaughter, the concern that the Dark Lord would be over-shadowed by another, or that they themselves were no longer useful to the Dark Lord? Snape knew that he had value, both for the potions that allowed the Dark Lord to use his host's body as a candle burning at both ends, and for the tenuous connection to Potter. The Death Eaters, though.... Snape could see how they were too small a force and, at once, too blunt an instrument to accomplish much. "Do not concern yourselves with the Chairman and his party; Lord Voldemort is aware of his every move." Obviously, thought Snape, as he is one and the same... man. It was a closely held secret, though, and revealing secrets could be fatal. That is, eventually fatal. "Large-scale attacks bring a large number of Ministry aurors. Muggles die, but we lose members. The small attacks, scattered as they are, can not be stopped and pose little risk. Scrimgeour and his aurors can do little except clean up the wreckage, and the muggle Ministry puts more pressure on him as a result. Bowing to the demands of the muggles weakens Scrimgeour's Ministry."

"We-ell, that's all right, I suppose," agreed Rowle. Snape suspected the Death Eater did not truly grasp the subtle political balances. "So long's there's a plan."

"There are plans within plans, I can assure you. That is not a cause for concern," said Snape, thinking of the coming snipe hunt for the wand.

"What is cause for concern? What about Potter?" asked Dolohov.

"The Dark Lord will be the one to kill the boy, when the time comes. That is his order."

"Right, right. But shouldn't we, sort of, try and capture him?" asked the younger Rowle.

"I can not send any Death Eaters to do so," explained Snape. Which was, he thought, not the same as forbidding them from trying. He would have to somehow get word to Potter. "But be warned: the Dark Lord is searching for a powerful wand. He will not help if the Ministry captures you." Nor will he mourn, thought Snape, if Potter's luck holds.

v - v - v - v - v

Today, thought Gabrielle, was going to be a good day. It would be nicely warm outside, but not oppressive. It was the kind of day that was perfect for working outdoors; one did not have to a naturist like Monique to see that. It was also the day that Maman would meet Aunt Laurel for lunch in Chamoix. That was occasioned by last night's owl that delivered Gabrielle's sixth year results. Results that affirmed Gabrielle's opinion that she was a proper, talented witch who was more than up to the day's task. And results that, while not as good as Fleur's had been, exceeded her parent's lower expectations. That, Gabrielle had to admit, did not feel quite right, but Papa had gushed and promised her a gift of her choosing, while Maman made plans to show the marks off to anyone who had doubted a Delacour daughter. Gabrielle wondered if she would start with a mirror, but did not say so. Instead, she asked Papa for a crystal ball. A small one, she clarified after Papa immediately looked to his wife. The goblin ink did work, of course, but it was now obvious to Gabrielle that George needed to be near a watery liquid for her to succeed in scrying. That was not, she thought unable to stifle a yawn, uncommon late at night at some pub, but her little window did tend to get swallowed. Also, George looked to be getting suspicious, or at least he was becoming annoyingly observant. Gabrielle decided that a crystal ball, a real one, would be more convenient and versatile. And, whispered a second thought, it might let her look down while he was washing up.

Gabrielle had initially anticipated being invited to Chamoix, the only wizarding village remaining in France, but Maman decided to go alone. Aunt Laurel was not, Maman gloated, the most gracious when she had been bested, and Maman planned on being very clear that her sister had been. Gabrielle had hoped for a chance to steer her mother to Madame Tousconnus's shop, and its crystal section, while Maman was still proud of her and less likely to remember the wand shop incident. It was where Madame Sombrevoir shopped; there was a discount if one had an Outstanding in her class.

Not accompanying her mother usually meant that Monsieur Toulier and his car would be summoned, and that Gabrielle would spend the day with Philippe. On this day, however, her Maman finally, finally realized that Gabrielle was mature enough to remain at the manor alone. Yes, there was a long list of things that Gabrielle was restricted from doing, from touching, and, yes, Maman had checked and rechecked the Floo powder pots, even suspending a pouch of it over a low fire in the hearth in case it was all Gabrielle could do to reach the hearth, but it was long overdue recognition that her daughter was no longer a little girl.

The time alone was certainly needed. There were several things that Gabrielle did not like about the goblin ink. One, besides the limited view and even more limited quantity, was that the black ink could only be used once. Which was ridiculous, thought Gabrielle. The water, after all, was not any less black after watching George relax at a pub. The other main objection, which she had discovered after carefully pouring out the useless, inky water after a failed attempt at reuse, was that it really corroded copper - Maman's pan was a complete mess. All week long Gabrielle had fretted that her mother would suddenly desire to cook a fish. Since the ruined pan was safely in her handbag, Gabrielle knew Maman would not find it, but she also knew Maman would realize who was responsible for the disappearance. The worry and late nights were making Gabrielle exhausted. That was tolerated, though, as another so-called 'phase' she was going through. Especially since Gabrielle had abandoned Phase Two for the new plan, which Gabrielle judged to have a good chance of working.

But for now, Gabrielle sought out the shade of the old apple tree again. She arranged the blanket, sat down, and opened "Tachetes Compendium of Household Potions." There was bound to be something in it about cleaning tarnish. Gabrielle did not need the pan any longer, having scrounged a muggle container that had blown in from the edge of the property. It was made from their plastic stuff, needed a good scrubbing, and worked as well as the pan had, though it smelled funny. Importantly, it was smaller and used less ink. Which would not be important at all if she could wheedle a crystal ball from Papa.

The book was very odd, and was written back when blood seemed to be a real problem. If Gabrielle had to guess, she would say that a good half of the pages were dedicated to potions used for cleaning up the blood from a wide range of species. And the bile. Both were definitely quite prone to spill onto wood, cloth, and leather - at least when Tachetes compiled the tome. Blood was magical, that was true, but bile was just disgusting. Gabrielle had used bile in Alchemical Arts. It came in a big, brown glass jar. Not originally, of course, but Gabrielle could not see how one could consider extracting the liquid from its animal source a household event. That was just gross.

Gabrielle found what she sought in a small section discussing the effects of dragon-lizard saliva. It made her wonder how successful the book had ever been, because that also did not sound like a common household problem. At least, it would not be a problem in her household. Which was a pleasant daydream as she imagined a cross between the Burrow and Delacour manor, until a stray thought threw up a vision of the decrepit Winterhall hovel. In her mind's eye, Gabrielle saw it covered in bile and dripping with acidic saliva. No more dancing with insane old men, vowed Gabrielle, no matter how impolite it was to turn them down.

Gabrielle held the book open to 'Solution that Effects the Removal of Damaged Metal and Basilisk Flesh' with a rock, and reached into her handbag for her alchemy kit. It was the standard sixth year box of supplies, greatly supplemented by Professor Pleinbouillois. It was, in his mind, Cendrillon's kit he was adding to. Pleinbouillois was old and insane, to be sure, but Gabrielle decided that should not count against him. The potion began with the heating of water, which was easy enough. She had a flagon of water in the handbag, and conjuring flame was something she was good at. Among the many things, amended Gabrielle, that she was good at. She raised the little, light-colored wand that was her real one, and -

Stopped. Was starting a fire near grass really something she should repeat? There was no forest near, but the manor house was close. So much for preparation, sighed Gabrielle. She would have to work inside, and pray that Maman would somehow not detect the odor. Using her wand was on the restricted list; brewing potions was on twice. Gabrielle felt there was some wriggle room on the wand, because her mother probably meant the wand with Grandmere's hair at the core. The edict on potions was pretty definite, though.

Gabrielle was just about to put the cauldron back into her handbag when she had an inspiration. She could build a fire - in - the cauldron, and then use the pan itself as a long, thin cauldron. The damaged pan was copper, and the potion would go into it anyway. This was a brilliant idea, thought Gabrielle, and someone ought to know she came up with it.

That someone was Poisseux, the zombie toad recreated from spellotape. Gabrielle kept him in her handbag in a small box, in case he could be crushed by the other things the magic liner from George held. A lot of things ended up in the handbag's liner, and while she had never found anything damaged, it was better to keep Poisseux safe. Gabrielle also unclipped her zombie puffskein, Pepi-Z, from her hair and freed him from his tether. Her Maman would be out for hours, so Gabrielle felt reasonably safe going without Pepi-Z's vigilant, eh, somethings watching out. The little woolly bobble that made up the puffskein rolled around the faux toad in excitement.

"I need to make a fire to heat the water," announced Gabrielle once the two had settled down. There was not a big difference between settled and rambunctious for Poisseux, since he was a toad, but Gabrielle could tell. There was definitely less plod to his hop. "But look, oh dear, the grass will burn. What shall I do?"

Gabrielle's mouth hung open in surprise when Poisseux immediately hopped over to the cauldron and made as if to climb it. She recovered quickly. "That's right, I will use the cauldron. Very, eh, good." He must have heard me, eh, think it, thought Gabrielle peevishly. It had been a very good, very clear thought and Poisseux might have picked up on it. From inside his box inside the handbag. The idea did make some sense to Gabrielle. Did he not always know what she said to him, even though he had no ears?

There was not much wood available under the tree, but there were plenty of dead-looking branches up in the canopy. That was proved true when one gave way as Gabrielle pulled herself up, leading to the opposite result, which was down. The fall hurt nothing more then her dignity, really. And, at least a little, her back, because of the little, shriveled, rock-hard fallen apples that she landed on. Mostly, it made Gabrielle exasperated. This was not going the way she had hoped, had expected. Gabrielle looked at the leafless, lifeless branch above her, and took out her wand. If Ron Weasley can do it, thought Gabrielle, then I can as well. She aimed her little wand, which really seemed to like her idea, upward. "_Reducto. Reducto!_ Oh, come on! _Reducto!_" shouted Gabrielle as she lay on the ground. The first two attempts merely buffeted the target tree limb, flaking away loose bark that a desperate second thought tried futilely to point out was landing near her head. The last incantation rent the target. Splinters and shards of bark rained down. The branch above her sagged, then snapped free. "La vache!" Gabrielle flung herself to side as the spear-like wood dropped, burying itself several centimeters into the soil before twisting slowly to the ground. That, thought Gabrielle, would have hurt. Whether it would have hurt more than when her head smashed into the cauldron as she dodged the falling timber was an open question. The empty cauldron bounced away with a ringing clang which matched the one in her head.

Gabrielle rubbed her head with her fingers, checking for a lump, and retrieved her was plenty of wood to put into it now. The folding knife from Gaston helped in breaking off pieces. While it could have gone a little more smoothly, Gabrielle preferred to note her very capable use of magic to get the wood. "Now that we, eh, have wood, I will make the fire," she narrated for her pets. This - was - something she was good at. Gabrielle conjured a mass of flame, not the gentle bluebell flame any sixth year could manage, but the yellow-orange kind that she felt always looked angry. She swirled and looped her wand, keeping the flames turning on themselves in a ball. This was cool, and Gabrielle knew it. She also knew what would happen if she dropped the twisting flames. Fortunately, she had a place to practice the maneuver at Beauxbatons; grass could not burn twice.

Gabrielle lowered the flames into the cauldron, where it hungrily flowed over the wood. The crackling and popping of a good, hot fire began almost immediately. Gabrielle glanced over to make sure her audience was suitably attentive, and saw that one of the squirrels, or at least a squirrel, was back. "Now I will begin to brew the potion," explained Gabrielle as if lecturing a class. She placed the copper cookware on top of the cauldron, and added the water. Poisseux was almost giddy with anticipation; he had never seen her brew before. Gabrielle could tell because the toad's behind was almost off the ground, and his forelegs could hardly raise him any higher.

Gabrielle was in the middle of grinding the glands from giant ants when there was a scuffle from her observers. She turned her head in time to see the squirrel drop Pepi-Z from his paws because Poisseux was lunging. A glare of irritation from her settled them, though the squirrel subsequently retreated to an overhead branch. Gabrielle was pretty sure that Pepi-Z would not be able to climb, but if that squirrel thought it was safe from the toad then it was in for a surprise. She hoped she would not have to intervene, as the potion was proving tricky. Though that would, suggested a second thought, give her an excuse. The liquid boiling in the pan was green. It had turned green shortly after the first of the chopped roots went in, and became greener with each addition. Even the drops of black-rat bile - a few drops from the small, brown glass vial that Pleinbouillois had dazedly given - which could stain anything yellow, only made the green darker. The expected color of the potion was not specified, but Gabrielle would have guessed from the ingredients that the result would be brownish with gray lumps. Actually, frowned Gabrielle, most of her potions were brown with gray lumps, whether they were supposed to be or not. At least on the first try. The one bubbling over the fire was green with black lumps. It might be all right, but Gabrielle found it oddly worrying.

It was possible, thought Gabrielle, that Madame or Monsieur Tachetes was a complete fraud. She could see how it might work. There only needed to be a few real potions in the book. The rest, because they covered what Gabrielle considered to be outlandish domestic situations, could just be made up lists of substances. That would explain why the ingredients were not as clear as those listed in class. The potion called for bile, but it had not specified from what animal. And what, puzzled Gabrielle, was 'seed of fagin queerus?' She had never heard of such a plant, and now she needed four of its seeds. Even the ant glands could be a problem. All ants were not the same, were they?

Gabrielle decided to break the news to Poisseux. "I am, eh, not certain I can finish the potion. I do not, eh, have four 'fagin queerus' seeds." The toad slumped, and Pepi-Z rolled over to console him. The squirrels scampered away. Gabrielle found that a little rude; it was not if the cleaning of the pan would have been that exciting. She dumped in the ground ant bits, and gave the green concoction a stir. She was stirring more often than she should, because it was not boiling properly as the fish pan was longer than the cauldron was wide. The next to be added was pulverized 'Lucifer beetles.' Gabrielle's kit, augmented though it was, had only dung beetle, chinese scarab beetle, and stinkbug. It probably did not matter, decided Gabrielle, so she chose the stinkbug. They were at least easy to replace.

While Gabrielle was trying to remember the difference between ground and pulverized, she thought she heard a splash. A second such sound made her look over in time to see the third source of the noise fall into the bubbling liquid. She looked up into the tree, spotting the two squirrels as one dropped an acorn. This one hit the edge of the copper pan, bouncing away. "Hey! Non! What are -" The two animals had another acorn hidden in their cheeks, and that one did not miss. "Stop that!" ordered Gabrielle. The pair crouched on their branch, contriving to look abashed.

Insane old wizards, sighed Gabrielle, and small animals. Both were off the list. Not that it mattered, she supposed. The potion would probably fail. Oh, Merlin. Could squirrels cry? This was just ridiculous, thought Gabrielle, though she guessed they were only trying to help, in their own way. Acorns were seeds, anyway, and possibly the only ones a squirrel might know of. There was no Natural Arts classes for them! "Eh, it is all right. Thank you," said Gabrielle, giving the squirrels a small and somewhat insincere smile. "But, eh, only I should put things in, yes?" Was tail flicking agreement? Do not talk to them, Gabrielle reminded herself.

The bits of stinkbug tumbled into the pan, and the potion frothed greenly. This was always an anxious moment for Gabrielle. Some efforts in Alchemical Arts had been practically volcanic! She stirred the brew, noting the roughness on the bottom. The fire, Gabrielle noted proudly, was too hot, her flames too strong. It was going to be unpleasant to clean though, so Gabrielle scraped at the crusty bottom and wondered how she would put the fire out. She knew that she really should learn some water conjuring spells as well as the flame ones - perhaps from George. She had just had not gotten to that yet. Anyway, water was a lot harder than fire.

The fire went out by itself in a billowing pillar of steam. The stirring rod Gabrielle used cart-wheeled upward back toward her, striking her between the eyes. She collapsed backwards in time to avoid the corrosive, scalding cloud that exploded out of the cauldron. The blast sent Maman's pan spinning into the tree limb above it. It rained green potion, flakes of rotted metal, and squirrels.

v - v - v - v - v

"Hello Tom," repeated the bronze clown figurine. The dark Lord's eyes widened, and he made to strike out with his wand. "Ah," continued the animated statue, "I see I have caught you unawares. I do apologize, but one must occasionally - what was it? oh, yes - seize the moment."

"Who... are you?" asked Lord Voldemort.

"I must say this is an excellent bit of magic, Tom, as befits a former Hogwarts Head Boy. Very intricate. Except, alas, you have overlooked a crucial detail. A pattern, I think, with your plans. This will not be much of a conversation, I fear, as this head lacks ear-holes. Of course, it is easy thing to miss if one is normally given to ignoring the advice of others."

The Dark Lord's face tightened at the criticism. The spell to ensconce a soul was obviously successful, and the magicked sculpture moved easily, examining its immobile hands. The voice was small and tinny, but the manner was familiar. "Dumbledore."

"It is unfortunate these pins are not freed of the hands. I find juggling a very useful skill to possess. As is lip-reading, though I had not expected to employ either ever again. You have surmised correctly, Tom."

"Why are you here?" asked Lord Voldemort. He tried to decide if this development would be useful or not. Here was Dumbledore, on one end of the wand, all but imprisoned. But on the other end, the old wizard was already dead. What more could be done to him? The Dark Lord would have liked to learn if the use of an unmodified wand was still possible or not. Handing an old foe a weapon was not going to happen, though, if there was no leverage. "What do you want?"

"Why and what are the same in this case, and have not changed at all. I wish only to save you from yourself. Do not be so dismissive! One soul can see another, no matter what the guise, and yours is in appalling shape."

"You claim to see me, but I, Lord Voldemort, see you for the fraud you are! You claimed that death was just the next big adventure, but here you have jumped at the first chance to rejoin the world of the living. Who has the clearer sight? I have all but conquered death while you still run from it. Lord Voldemort - is - the magic," ranted the Dark Lord.

"I said I had some skill for lip-reading; I was not a prodigy. I will, however, hazard that any advice I give will fall on ears as deaf as these ones," said the metal circus clown, tapping the sides of his head. The noise was like a bell. "I know what you are looking for. You will never possess it."

"What I am looking for is a large hammer," retorted the Dark Lord. Or, as he stared at the hardened chalk walls beyond the figurine, a good bit of stone. He raised his wand.

"Harry knows your secrets, Tom. All of your secrets, and you know none of his. You can not win, in the end. You can only hope to rebuild your shattered -"

"_Accio_ wall!' snapped Lord Voldemort. He normally would not have bothered with a verbal incantation, but it helped vent the irritation. The experiment was over. Half a ton of white tower wall cut off the ridiculous clown. Both, sneered the Dark Lord, the metal one and the talkative one. The jagged hole allowed in the sea air, and Lord Voldemort stepped to the ruined wall to breath it in. There was much to think about. How much of the deceased headmaster's blather, for instance, was bluff? How much really mattered if it were not? Confirming that Potter knows of the existence of the Horcrux did not much change the circumstances. The boy would still have to find, acquire, and destroy the relics. That, thought the Dark Lord, could be made exceedingly difficult. But not, he was forced to admit, impossible, which made finding the legendary Death Stick all the more crucial. A stronger wand than the current meager one would enable the creation of additional Horcrux; the Death Stick would protect them for an eternity.

The Dark Lord climbed on to the lip of the hole. The view was expansive, but the tower, judged the Dark Lord, should be higher. If Potter had a secret, it was not one he had found alone. That meant, thought Lord Voldemort, that he himself could discover it as well, in time. That is, if the whole of it was not a bluff to make him hesitate. With his wand in his outstretched hand, the Dark Lord leapt from the hole, and flew.

v - v - v - v - v

"Papa! You are home," chirped Gabrielle with the wide smile that Fleur said made her looked crazed. She wore a ridiculously childish velvet dress with lace. Her father loved it; she loathed it. Gabrielle also loathed the fact that it still fitted her well enough to be able to wear. She was already a year into Beauxbatons, and she should have outgrown the things of her childhood.

"Mon petite ange," greeted her father. "You look happy." He sent his satchel and pointed hat to the closet with his wand.

Good, thought Gabrielle, because she certainly was not truly happy. It had not been a good day. She had had a lump between her eyes that Maman had been very displeased about before healing, her clothes from before were stained with green splotches, and half of the old apple tree was turning brown. When it lost its leaves Maman would see the remains of her pan embedded into the high branch. No amount of dramatic poses helped in summoning it from where it was lodged. The worst, the absolute worst, of course, was that she had had to bury one of the squirrels. The other, also stained green, was under her bed, either sleeping or in a coma. At least she had been able to bandage its broken little body. Gabrielle knew she would need to write Professor Elevagre for help. "I am," she pretended. "The expedition is so close! I can't wait to see Klaus again." Gabrielle hugged her father's arm as they walked.

"Klaus? Who is this?" asked Monsieur Delacour, failing to completely hide the suspiciousness of his tone.

"I meant Professor Festeller. He's so hot, eh, that is, amazing," giggled Gabrielle. It was a little heavy-handed, but Gabrielle sensed that this was the winning strategy. She would make it seem like the real reason she wanted to go was not the adventure she had previously touted in Phase One, but the professor. And not just the professor, but the man who - was - the professor. Papa could over-rule Maman if he wished to, if he thought that that was the case. Gabrielle was sure of it.

"You address this... professor in such a manner?"

"Oh Papa! You are very silly," said Gabrielle lightly, not actually answering the question. That was the seed planted, and it would have to do for now because she could see Madame Chouisse's cat padding toward the hall to her room. Had she closed the door? There was no sense in risking a flea infestation just to make the cat's dinner. She should have left Poisseux on guard.

v - v - v - v - v

Gabrielle felt like dancing, though she did not because she was carrying a glass of wine. The planted seed had taken root and sprouted. Gabrielle had carried on for quite a while about Festeller, occasionally Klaus, during dinner. That was not the normal routine for dinner, which was usually a quite, formal affair. More unusual was the inadvertent help that Gabrielle's mother had given as she defended the professor against her father's imprecatory complaints. The two of them together had finally made Papa complain of indigestion. But not, he had quickly insisted, a case bad enough that Maman needed to brew her sure-fire cure.

Gabrielle decided, now that Papa felt like he was facing doom, that it was time to subtly suggest an alternative. The extra glass of wine would make it much easier to be subtle. Gabrielle planned to hint at two possibilities. The first was a family obligation; specifically helping Fleur in Britain. The second was to get a Ministry edict or declaration, though Gabrielle now thought it doubtful that the Ministry, even with Papa pushing, could act quickly enough. Did not Papa always say that?

Gabrielle paused to listen at the door of her father's study. She did not think that Maman was inside, but it was better to be careful. Maman's support had come because she thought Festeller was well-respected and that the expedition was a prestigious opportunity. Those opinions would not be helpful now. Also, she did not like it when Papa was asked for favors in that certain way.

There was no sound coming from the other side of the door other than some music from the wireless, so Gabrielle slipped inside. Her father was seated at his desk, paging through several large books scattered on the wood expanse in front of him. Gabrielle suspected, knowing her Papa, that they were genealogies of notorious German criminals, and their twisted crimes. "Papa? I, eh, have brought you some, eh, wine." She smiled the too-wide smile that he liked.

"My kitten, you treat your father so well," said Papa, brightening.

Gabrielle climbed onto the arm of the chair and snuggled into her father's shoulder. His lap was too small for her now, but whether she had outgrown it or his stomach had was arguable. She cooed into his ear, "I am a young woman, Papa. You must see this."

"Non, you are still my precious little girl," disagreed the Delacour patriarch. His arm came up automatically to steady Gabrielle. "Which is why... I, at least, do not think it appropriate for you to go on this folly." The last part was said more quietly, since his wife held the opposing view. "I have been reading about this Festeller. There are certain allegations on the handling of magical artifacts; not all of which can be ascribed to professional jealousy."

"Papa. The Goblet chose me, not Kl- the professor," noted Gabrielle, more to stoke her father's indignation than anything else. Technically, she still thought that the Goblet had cheated her. She fiddled with the buttons on his robes, and looked steadily into his eyes.

"Of course it would," said Papa quickly, to please his daughter.

"It chose Fleur as well."

"Do I need to remind you as to what a disaster that turned into? I do not like this entire situation, this German bringing that cursed Goblet to the school. At least Dumbledore had the sense to use an age-line. The students' families should have been consulted."

"Family emergencies are taken into account," hinted Gabrielle. She stroked her father's cheek, like Fleur would do. "If one had to help take care of a family member, for instance..."

"Ah! But no, your mother and I are quite healthy," noted Papa, hopes raised then dashed.

Gabrielle rolled her eyes. "Yes, but Fleur -"

"Fleur? What has happened? Did she Floo? Why was I not told? It's that Weasley fellow she -"

"Papa," said Gabrielle a little sharply. She turned his face back to hers. "Fleur is fine, but she, eh, will need more rest. And, eh, help, because of the baby." Perhaps, thought Gabrielle, this is too subtle.

"Yes, your mother will go when the baby is closer."

This is not working, thought Gabrielle. It used to work - the dress was one of his favorites and she thought her smile was right. It may be, considered Gabrielle, that Papa is not relaxed enough. He had only taken a single sip of the wine. "You should have some more of the wine," suggested Gabrielle. She failed to notice where her father's gaze was focused as she sprawled across him to reach the glass. A hand clamped onto her collar.

"What do you think you are doing?" asked Maman coolly.

v - v - v - v - v

Gabrielle stirred and lifted her head, blinking away the sleep. She had not intended to fall asleep, but the single candle kept the room purposefully dim so as not to attract more of Maman's ire, and as a result it was too dark to read. It was not as if Papa had promised her anything, or even caught on to her hints. Gabrielle wished she had had more of Monsieur O'Beirne's firewhiskey. That would have worked faster than the wine.

Moving to the window, Gabrielle estimated that is was just past midnight based on how the moon had risen. George was bound to be at a pub, a thought that made her frown. When they were married, that would have to stop. For now though, it meant that there would be liquid near him. She prepared her ink, stared into it while sniffing the old shirt, her guidepost to the Hidden Realm, and waited.

The waiting was something that Gabrielle found strange. There were times when the ink showed something within minutes, and there were times when she would have to gaze into the blackness for what seemed like an hour. There was no obvious pattern to the delay, and it varied no matter how carefully Gabrielle repeated her steps. She needed some reference materials on scrying, and she needed to get them without a figure of authority looking on with disapproval.

The ink rippled and flickered, and resolved not to the dim light of a pub or the pulsating light of a club, but to an ordinary, well-lit room. The view this time was more expansive too, which was odd. It meant, at least, that she was not looking up from the bottom of someone's drink. The other oddity this time was that there were two images of George. One was in front of her point of view, the other was above her. Both Georges were writing while leaning back on a bed. Gabrielle realized that this had to be George's own room. Setting aside the mystery of the image floating above her, Gabrielle tilted her head around to examine as much of the room as she could. There was not much furniture that she could see, and what she could see was all very cluttered. The room did not look filthy, like Gabrielle remembered Ron's room being, or even messy, per se. It was more as if the room was too full. Some things did stand out. The toilet seats and lids were an unexpected addition, one with an 'H' and the other with a 'G'. A Gringotts 'G'. Souvenirs, of a sort, thought Gabrielle with a wrinkled nose.

George, noticed Gabrielle as she went back to watching him, was just wearing a shirt and underwear. Boxers, and a tartan pattern. Papa would explode, if he only knew. Was George turning in for the night? What had he done during the day to make him stay in for a night? Hopefully nothing that involved 'Mortal Peril'.

A thought occurred to Gabrielle. The moon was waxing, and was nearing full. Was that her letter he was writing? Was this, she imagined, his special night dedicated just to her? He is, thought Gabrielle, so sweet. It really hurt that she might not be able to escape her current fate. "George," she whispered wistfully.

The George on the bed lifted his head, cocked an ear, and then looked toward where Gabrielle peered into his room. The image of George above her did the same, except that that George looked down directly into where Gabrielle watched. Mirror, thought Gabrielle. He can see you, screamed an alarmed second thought. Gabrielle lurched back from her plastic container with the ink, and dropped the shirtt over it. She grimaced as she remembered George's grinning face just before she covered the view. "Merde, merde, merde!" Once for getting caught, once for not working out the mirror trick in time, and once for the blackness seeping through the fabric.


	8. Rayon de Soleil

Chapter Eight - Rayon de Soleil

The last week in July.

"Good morning, Arthur."

"Morning, Trobes? It's gone past noon now," replied Arthur Weasley. In fact, he had been about to make his way down to the tea room for a bite and a cuppa. "I say to you, good afternoon."

"Yeah, all right, fair enough. You, er, know about the contraptions on the outsides of muggle banks, right?" asked Trobes Stoutly. He worked in Magical Law Enforcement, liaising with his counterparts among the muggles. "I know it's not your portfolio anymore, but since you've gone the department's ruddy useless."

"Ah, the, erm, auto-telly-makers? Not had the chance to use one, of course."

"How do they work?"

"Well, I really couldn't say. My guess is that it involves eckeltricity," answered Arthur.

"I meant how do muggles use them?"

"Oh, it looks easy enough. They go up, punch in the desired amount of wonga, and the, erm, bills slide out a slot."

"So anyone can take the money? That seems a bit daft, even for muggles. How do the banks stay open?" asked Trobes, frowning.

"I think there's a key, of some sort, involved," suggested Arthur.

"Oh, a key. I see now. The little, framed glass bit is a window, and one of the tellers inside goes to the vault to fetch the money. Presumably this teller should be able to recognize his customers, and whose fault is it if he doesn't, eh?"

"Actually, I'm given to understand that the customers themselves access their vaults," explained Arthur. "There's no teller. It's all done with mechanisms."

"What, the keys all open the same door, but it's a different vault each time?"

"Remarkable, isn't it?"

"It's, er, it's... Still, no teller means anyone with a key can, er, use it," said Trobes. He pulled a large photograph from his sleeve and scrutinized it. "Can hardly be a crime if that's their idea of security. Practically a hole in the wall of the bank, really."

"What have you got there, Trobes?"

"It's a photo, came in this morning from the Yard Not-Really-in-Scotland. They say it shows one of ours robbing one of these telly-makers. Here, what do you make of it?"

Arthur Weasley took the photo and watched it. A young wizard, if that is what he was, about his son Bill's age, held a wand. Or a plain old stick, if it was a muggle. Arthur gave the image a poke with his wand after a few seconds.

"Ah, sorry," apologized Trobes. "It's a muggle photo. I've got a few more here." He produced a stack of photos from his other sleeve, and tapped them with his wand. The individual photographs began shuffling themselves from the top to the bottom, one at a time, so the whole series was shown in a loop. In it, the young wizard was shown approaching, drawing what was surely a wand, and then securing the muggle bills on his person. The actual casting of a spell was lost to the usual glitch.

"I'd say there's a case here. Didn't even have a go with a key. Good luck for us the muggles had a camera pointed right there," noted Arthur. "Any idea who it is?"

"Might be a fellow named Meekum," answered Trobes, frowning again as he took the stack of photos back. They struggled in his grip to continue their dance.

"Might be? He can't be that long out of Hogwarts. I've got yearbooks," offered Arthur.

"Here's an odd thing. Show folks who know him a muggle photo, and they're dead certain it's him. Show them the lot, moving in a way, and suddenly they can't be sure," explained Trobes. "This is up near North Yorkshire and the moors, not his usual ground. Might be a glamour."

"More of a case then, as well," nodded Arthur. Trobes Stoutly nodded in return. He tucked the photographs back into a sleeve, and hesitated. "Something else, then, Trobes?"

"What do you make of the vote, electing Pius Thicknesse?" asked Stoutly in a rush.

"Well, it was a quite... well-choreographed maneuver by the WASI supporters and their Chairman, I can say that," replied the senior Weasley carefully.

"It's all right for you, you've kept your posting. Scrimgeour was one of us, from the Enforcement Department, for all that driving down the attacks did for him," complained Trobes. "But Thicknesse is conjured from the same wand. What's the gain, and who will replace him as department head now?"

"Fair or not, a solid majority of the Wizengamot see the WASI party as the real reasons attacks, on wizards at least, have fallen. Many, I gather, thought Scrimgeour could have done more if he had not been so beholden to the muggle Ministry, or even afraid of it."

"Bollocks, the whole lot of it."

"That's politics," shrugged Arthur. Then he turned more serious. "Let's just hope that Thicknesse does not forget that He-Who-Must-Not-be-Named is not defeated yet. Quiet does not mean gone."

v - v - v - v - v

"Where the bloody hell are we?" came the voice of Ron Weasley from an indistinct blur. The blur was off to the left of Harry Potter, who was, like Ron, flying under a Disillusionment charm, on a broom, along the wide service tunnel. Both boys rode with passengers. At Ron's question, Harry's passenger, Ginny, tightened her grip. Harry rather liked that, but knew in reality that she was imagining she had her hands around her brother's neck. Ron rode with Hermione. Weirdly, she found flying in an enclosed space quite tolerable. Harry, personally, found it nerve-wracking.

"I nearly got to a hundred since the last time you asked." That was either Fred or George. They were a bit further behind. Fred shared his broom with Verity; George flew solo. "Do us a favor and try to hit a ventilation tube again."

The twins, Harry knew, had come along because Ginny had come. Ginny had come because, well, she had insisted on it in a very Weasley display of stubborness and temper. Also, she had pointed out that she had a knack for ending up with the Horcrux. Harry felt that that was, overall, a negative, and would have argued more, but when Ginny got close he found it hard to deny her anything. Besides, Harry reasoned, if Ron and Hermione were going to carry on like they did, then why not he and Ginny? Though, of course, that was why Fred and George were along. Why Verity was included was a bit of a mystery. It had, if Harry had heard George correctly, to do with muesli and Paris. And Fred, who would not have either if Verity was not along. This was going to be difficult when it came time to reveal the actual destination.

"Based on the last access tunnel markings, I would say that we are nearly half the way through," answered Hermione pleasantly. "Or, nearly a kilometer further since the last time you asked," she added more tersely.

"All right, all right. But this is bloody boring - ow!" exclaimed Ron.

"There's no reason for such language all the time," reminded Hermione.

"Try distracting yourself by actually having a thought," suggested one of the twins.

"What about?"

"It's no use. The only thing he thinks of is food, and if he does that he'll be whinging about being hungry again," complained Ginny.

"Ron, do you know you have a hole in you pocket? I can get my whole hand through," said Hermione.

"What? Oh! Ulp..."

"I think I need the good half of a Puking Pastille," groaned a brother.

"I wonder if you've got a hole as well," whispered Ginny. The probing fingers were definitely a distraction, which is why the power cable came as such a, well, shock.

v - v - v - v - v

"Merci, Monsieur Toulier, for the ride," waved Monique. "Au revoir Philippe! It was nice meeting you."

"Uh, oui. It, uh, it was nice. Uh, to meet you," struggled Philippe. Gabrielle watched as her childhood friend reddened. She was fairly certain that if Philippe had a crush then it was not for her.

Gabrielle thanked Monsieur Toulier as well, who, as was his habit, kissed her on the forehead. That, supposed Gabrielle, did not necessarily make him insane. She said goodbye to Philippe, but all that she got in return from him was a blank nod. She, Philippe, and Monique had gone to a muggle cinema. Gabrielle had been to the cinema before with Philippe, but it had been Monique's first time. The experience had made more of an impression on Monique than the story. Her questions about the flickering images had been difficult to keep quiet during the film. Monique, in turn, had made quite an impression on Philippe. He rudely ogled her nearly the entire time, though he probably thought he was being surreptitious. Gabrielle had noticed at least. She suspected that that was due to Monique's choice of dress. While Gabrielle had worn the stretchy green top and slacks, Monique arrived in a short dress with a scooped neckline, done in what Monique had called organic, un-dyed cotton but what Gabrielle thought of as a dingy white. Philippe contrived to sit between the girls, and that was fine by Gabrielle. Monique, sensed Gabrielle, had some nature stuffed down the dress, and the scent of it made Gabrielle drift off, in her mind's eye, to a lush forest clearing where flowers she did not recognize grew.

"That was really interesting. Do you always use that special entrance?" asked Monique as they walked up to the entrance of Delacour Manor.

"Eh, no, not always," replied Gabrielle. Philippe had decided that they should sneak in through an exit, something she thought his father had put a stop to. They had nearly been discovered as he explained the way the thin piece of metal worked to open the door. "I, eh, don't know he did that." That was not exactly true. Gabrielle assumed he was trying to show-off for Monique.

"I really didn't get that whole thing about the bolts and, uh, pawls? It sounded very mechanical.1"

Gabrielle shrugged. The trick was harder than it looked, but easier than Philippe's explanation. Getting caught, though, would have been a complete disaster. The added worry that they would be pulled from their seats and escorted out ruined the diversion Gabrielle had hoped for. There was more than enough worries already. The apple tree lost more leaves each day and would soon expose her folly, the stupid cat clawed at her door, the equally stupid squirrel kept dislodging his splint trying to climb the bed, and Maman watched over Papa like a dog guarding sheep. He had not yet done anything about the impending trip! And, George had caught her. Probably caught her. Gabrielle was not so sure anymore that he had. His next post would be telling. But what, Gabrielle had worried for nights now, if he was so angry at the intrusion, innocent intrusion, that he never wrote again? She knew she should apologize and beg for forgiveness, but what if George had not really seen her? She would then be confessing to an embarrassing crime prematurely, and George, having learned of it that way, might become angry anyway. Gabrielle wished she could be certain, and she was tempted to check on George's mood even though she had sworn to end the scrying. He might, having been betrayed by true love, be terribly depressed. That happened a lot on the wireless programs. Gabrielle would hate to see George like that. A stray thought wondered if not seeing him despondent would be worse. Gabrielle decided to wait to see if the slip-up was mentioned in his letter. If, that is, he does write. If there was not another letter, what was she to do then?

Monique nudged Gabrielle in the ribs. "Hey, what was that - oh." Pepi-Z, Gabrielle realized, was bouncing in his tether. She had not noticed.

"Gabrielle, you are home, finally. You have a visitor." Madame Delacour indicated that Gabrielle's current distracted stroll was insufficient for the situation with an emphatic gesture.

"Eh, it is not a goblin, is it?" asked Gabrielle. Insane old wizards were... old, and therefore more likely to pass on. She really did not want their things.

"Non. Do not be silly. Professor Elevagre is here, he has -"

Gabrielle stopped short. "Professor Elevagre? Here? I, eh, did not mean for him to come," said Gabrielle in surprise. She had written asking for advice in treating the injured squirrel, but that had only been just the other day. He would come personally for such a trivial thing? Perhaps she had had an affect on him. A Veela affect - though he did not appear to be very old. With great powers, reminded a second thought, came great problems. Or something.

"Yes - what? Now is not the time for games. Monique, dear, I am afraid you will have to Floo directly. Do give your mother my regards."

"Sure, Madame Delacour," replied Monique politely, while quite obviously trying to see around her and into the parlor.

"Go and change, Gabrielle, into the travelling outfit I left out. I've packed up the rest for you," ordered Madame Delacour.

"Eh, what? Why?" asked Gabrielle. Packed? Did Professor Elevagre expect her to accompany the squirrel back to Beauxbatons? There is no way, judged Gabrielle, that her question could be so misconstrued. It is a pathetic attempt, it was obvious now. The professor had lost his senses and had fallen completely in love with her. He was using this pretense to spirit her away, to confess his devotion, in a romantic and yet totally creepy manner. She certainly would - not - be going with him, and would have to tell him that her heart was held by another. Professor Elevagre would be crushed of course. Hopefully he would still give her the extra credit. It may not be about the squirrel, warned a second thought.

"There is a problem. They need you with Professor Festeller's party right now. Hurry, Professor Elevagre has been bleed- waiting," explained Gabrielle's mother, and she gave her daughter a helpful push in the right direction.

"What, eh, what do you mean? Maman!?" The push did not move Gabrielle far. She was having difficulty grasping the situation and stood confused. This was not about the sickened animal under her bed?

The lovely Delacour matron struggled with patience and sighed heavily. "Professor Festeller has sent for you early, child. That is all. There is a problem of some sort, one requiring... the unique Delacour abilities." She appeared to savor the last phrase. Gabrielle did not. "Go and change."

This, thought Gabrielle, made no sense. Unless they needed help starting a fire, or wanted to know where a fragrant cheese came from, Gabrielle knew she had no special abilities. That is, ones that would be useful in a crisis. Sent for her early? Was that allowed? It was not right! There was still a week before the official start of the trip - a week for Papa to fix things. She could not go now. She would not go now! "I, eh, I don't want to go!"

"Come on, Gigi. It's so exciting!" encouraged Monique.

"No, Mo-nude, it is not. It is unfair - I have a week! I am, eh, not going," declared Gabrielle with a stamp of her foot. She regretted that - too child-like.

"Stop playing the silly little girl again; the professor is waiting," reminded Madame Delacour sharply.

"What did you call me?" asked Monique.

"I, eh, have to wait for Papa! To, eh, say goodbye," suggested Gabrielle pleadingly. Once he was here, her father would help.

"This is a very proud, prestigious achievement for the Delacour name. You will not ruin it. Now go and get ready or I will use my wand," warned her Maman.

v - v - v - v - v

It took some time to get ready. Gabrielle spent much of the time ranting to the un-hearing walls about the great injustices in her life, such as her uncaring mother and the cheating Goblet. Some time was spent crying in despair. The rest was used to put her real clothes into the magical handbag liner, in a manner meant to convey rage. Everything was ruined. Gabrielle knew she had wasted too much time on Phase One and Phase Two. She should have gone to Papa right off, before Maman had seen her marks and raised her expectations. And, thought Gabrielle suspiciously, what was this so-called problem the professors could not deal with themselves? It was a ridiculous excuse, but to what end? Was it, suggested another thought, Impy? The black blister had come back! Her metal overshoes were still in the handbag.

Gabrielle stomped down the stairs and along the hall. She was dressed in tan and pockets. Gabrielle was not sure if she should be angry or worried, but she was definitely going to be irritating. The squirrel had been found under the wardrobe again, trying to gnaw an opening. The little animal might have been looking for a safer location, what with Madame Chouisse's cat usually just outside the bedroom door. She carried the creature down, in the over-sized helmet that Maman had found, to the parlor. The creature would be Maman's problem soon, she thought. Anyway, the squirrel was getting around a lot better, though it was still very wheezy.

Professor Elevagre sat in the parlor, carefully perched on the edge of his seat. His shoulder had been bleeding, the blood had soaked through his robes, and now a lump of bandages made him look lopsided. Gabrielle always thought that he just needed to be more patient with the beasts he handled. She wondered if something had bitten him, or if a particularly cranky owl had done that with its talons. Hopefully it was the owl; a bite would mean something very large, or something that attacked from above.

"Is that a rat?" asked Madame Delacour. The tone of her voice indicated that the stomping had worked.

"Eh, no. It is a squirrel," replied Gabrielle. She helpfully tipped the helmet toward Maman.

"Where did it come from, and - why - is it - inside - the manor?"

"It was hurt! I, eh, found it, eh, outside." No need to explain much else; it would not get her out of this, just into trouble.

"Ah yes, you sent an owl about it," remembered Professor Elevagre. "Poisoned, right?"

"Eh, perhaps," said Gabrielle vaguely. "I, eh, think he breathed in something." There were muggle farms near, and their sprays, if she needed a scapegoat. She handed the helmet to Elevagre, who reached in to scoop up the cowering creature. He sighed tiredly when it bit him. "Non!" blurted Gabrielle, giving the squirrel a tap on its nose. "You must not do that."

"Very odd coloration," noted the professor. Which was true. The green-stained fur was starting to - well, Gabrielle preferred to think of it as fade, but fall out was more correct. The new coat coming in was much, much lighter. White, in fact, which Gabrielle hoped was temporary along with the wheezing. "Could be due to a muggle peter-chemical poison. Or fumes from a potion," he added.

"You can, eh, heal it?" asked Gabrielle. Professor Elevagre handed the squirrel back to Gabrielle, and it ran up her arm to her shoulder using the many pockets on her blouse as a ladder. Gabrielle immediately pulled her zombie puffskein look-out from her hair, and put him into a breast-pocket. Pepi-Z apparently looked like a fuzzy red walnut.

"It is just a squirrel," started Elevagre, shrugging his shoulders and wincing as a result. Gabrielle had been afraid of that; he had not wanted to help the leeches either. "But I can suggest an elixir for a therapeutic steam. Now, we really should be leaving."

Madame Delacour fetched down Gabrielle's trunk, accepted, dubiously, the instructions from the professor, and received the squirrel from Gabrielle. The last was not well-received. Gabrielle quickly described the care the animal needed, while her Maman, after lightly stunning the forest creature, transfigured the firewood next to the hearth into a cage. Gabrielle thought about mentioning the fact that the squirrel would quickly gnaw its way out of such confinement, but did not.

Professor Elevagre extracted a carved wooden disk from a robe pocket. It was a Ministry port-key, which surprised Gabrielle. She had assumed they would Floo to Beauxbatons. "Eh, Professor? What exactly is the problem?"

"It is one of the animals," replied Elevagre. "Grab hold now."

That, thought Gabrielle, was no surprise. It was Professor Elevagre who had come, and he was bleeding. It probably was the unicorn, after all. The Festeller expedition was just an excuse, because then Maman would not let her refuse. Gabrielle reached for the disk, and decided that that was very presumptious. Also, unfair. And rude. Gabrielle steamed, but who could she be angry at? The professor was her Outstanding. While she would of course help with Impudanae, she would also make it very clear that she would be returning home afterwards.

v - v - v - v - v

The last wizard the world would need, Lord Voldemort, stood next to the newly repaired wall, his irritation flaring. The section of wall he had brought down on his test piece had been concave, naturally enough considering the shape of the tower. A minor detail he had overlooked in the heat of the moment. That soured his mood further when he realized it echoed the words of his former teacher. The massive curve of stone had failed to do its job. There was no trace of the statue, save for some bronze-colored scrapings on the stone floor that had been abraded off of it.

The wayward clown would not get far without a wand, but it had to be found. While Dumbledore may have revealed secrets to Potter, though Lord Voldemort doubted that even Dumbledore truly knew all his secrets, those had been only the ones known before the old wizard's much-deserved death. Now it seemed as if the meddling fool had continued to spy on him even as he rotted in the ground. The Chairman could not be exposed yet, and the mythic wand needed to be found. Dumbledore would have to be destroyed again.

A thought came to the Dark Lord. The wandering souls of the dead, drifting about for all eternity, or, perhaps, until the Rapture, obviously had nothing better to do than to watch the living. They were, it seemed, perfect spies. If there was a way to select the particular soul to ensconce in a munuscrux, reasoned Lord Voldemort, then he would have a way to communicate with his departed yet loyal servants. One more reliable than a pathetic seance attempt carried out by some old baggage. Divination again, sneered the Dark Lord to himself. As a student at Hogwarts, he had thought the trick to divination was being able to read people instead of leaves or ball, a skill he already had in abundance, and so he had excelled. Now he would have to study the theory of seances seriously, and hope it was magic more than talent that made it even slightly possible.

But first, a two-foot bronze circus clown that would have trouble using even a door handle needed to be found. It was as ridiculous as the hand tremors that had already begun. This body, this vessel, was already starting to fail. A buried dim spark wondered, what? Clearly, thought the Dark Lord, youth and health, besides utter subservience, were not sufficient criteria. That fool Quirrell had lasted more than a year, though. It was obvious to Lord Voldemort that the stronger he became, the shorter the subsumed body lasted. He needed not only youth, strength, and a weak will, but a potent innate magical ability as well. An unlikely combination, as it was the will as much as the wand that made magic possible. The Elder wand was needed, or at least a wand strong enough for a horcrux. And he would have to stomach the presence of the muggle sculptress again, to provide her with photographs frozen to resemble muggle photos. The future relic would not only free him from the burden of flesh, but would give him a face that did not make him cringe when he looked in a mirror, as this weak-chinned one did. What?

v - v - v - v - v

Gabrielle had used a port-key before. She preferred the carved wooden disks that the French Ministry used to the ones by the British Ministry, which were usually disguised as muggle trash. She had not had that much experience with them, however, so landings were usually unsteady. Unsteady in the sense that the whirling, spinning did not stop when she landed, only after staggering and stumbling for a few seconds. Which was why a proper port-key's destination would be an appropriately clear and open area. Which was not the case with this port-key. She and Professor Elevagre landed among a crowd of other wizards and witches, who complained at length even though they had landed on her rather than the reverse. Gabrielle doubted that any of them really needed the healer.

The healer, a witch with a thick braid of brown hair reaching below her waist, was already busy in any case. She was tending several writhing wizards just short of a kind of barricade made from tree trunks. A section near where the witch was conjuring splints shuddered violently with a tremendous crash, causing the healer to jump back. What in Merlin's name, wondered Gabrielle, was going on?

A loud, angry neighing gave Gabrielle a clue. That was definitely not Impudanae. It sounded like one of the Abraxans throwing a tantrum. "Eh, Professor? What is happening?"

"It is Soleil. He is... upset," replied Elevagre evasively. Gabrielle could believe that. Soleil was barely three years old, and was big for his age. Very big. Already some of the lower-ranked adult Abraxans would give way to him. Gabrielle knew that Montaigne had sired him, and that he was the only one of the herd that made any attempt to dominate Soleil. It was probably only delaying the inevitable; Soleil was used to getting his way. "It is the quarantine stall."

"Quarantine?" asked Gabrielle. Was Soleil ill? Probably due, suspected Gabrielle, to stealing the other Abraxans' feed. She wondered again why she had to be involved.

"Yes. If you could just... lead him in?"

"Eh, of course, yes. But, Professor, why is he - hey!" exclaimed Gabrielle as Professor Elevagre's wand levitated her. First, it was extremely rude to just cast spells on a person, though it happened to her a lot. Second, did he really not notice that she was wearing a skirt? It was hardly reasonable to lift her high into the air.

Even less reasonable was dropping her over the other side of the make-shift barrier, dropping being a literal term here. Gabrielle got back to her feet and stared at the wreckage of the camp. Tents of all sorts were collapsed and askew, and bits of strange implements that had once been delicately assembled were no longer so. This was not Beauxbatons. Soleil was here, kicking at the side of what Gabrielle supposed was the quarantine stall, which was obviously made of stronger stuff than the rest of the camp. Gabrielle frowned - the young Abraxan dragged around a crackling net of spidery, silvery lines draped over his back and wings. As much as Professor Elevagre said that the restraints did not hurt the creatures, it was plain that the magical netting bothered them. An emphatic kick from the Abraxan's massive hooves rocked the stall until it nearly tipped over. That, decided Gabrielle, was not necessary. "Soleil! Stop that!"

The colt pricked his ears, and jauntily high-stepped his way through the camp's debris, delivering quick kicks to the already damaged equipment. A lot of curly brass tubing lay mangled. Gabrielle had two thoughts. The first was to wonder whether she could find and put on her protective footwear before the dangerous hooves reached her. It was Professor Elevagre's fault that she did not have time to put them on before, though it would still be her drinking the Skele-Gro. The second was to note that Soleil's prancing was his usual manner after he had bested a rival and would collect his prize.

Gabrielle wondered if she was considered the prize. Soleil needed Montaigne's nips, in her opinion. Madame Maxime spoiled the whole herd, and Soleil was her favorite - after Montaigne, of course. Was Gabrielle there to placate Soleil? Why was Soleil here at all?

The anger and irritation from before returned and energized the peeved notion that she was thought of as the human equivalent of an extra pail of whiskey-soaked oats. The colliding moods culminated in a furious moment, wherein the dipping muzzle of Soleil met with the hard, painful slap from Gabrielle. Painful for Gabrielle, at least. More of a complete shock for the huge colt. Abraxans will not move backwards; a ten to fifteen meter wingspan makes them cautious of tangling. They do jump though, which would have provided Soleil an escape if the netting had not prevented him from spreading his wings. Instead he landed heavily just beside where he began his launch.

"Did you think I would be happy to see you? When you act like this?" demanded Gabrielle heatedly. "I had a week! Do you hear?" The Abraxan, eyes wide, twisted away.

While lacking at the top-end, a furious bipedal witch has a wide range of gaits and speeds to run at immediately available. A quadrupedal horse, faster under way, is slower off the mark, particularly if the horse has wings it has forgotten it can not use. Gabrielle harried and berated Soleil halfway across the camp site, blaming the animal even for the squirrel who she was now sure would die without her care. "Go to your stall, now!" ordered Gabrielle, waving her still-stinging hand. Soleil may not have understood his culpability in regards to a minuscule nut-gatherer, but the last was, at least, a clear direction. It put four legs into organized motion, and got him away from the witch with a mane like dried feverfew, who was so much different here than the way she was at his home stable.

The quarantine stall, of course, was the problem, and Soleil stopped short of the ramp. Abraxans are very intelligent for a species of horse, and can appear quite clever in circumstances. Where they come apart is in resolving conflicting instincts, especially when flight, or kicking and biting, are not available options. That these last generally are gives the breed their reputation for irrascibility. Soleil could not take-off, and had kicked the stall before. Going into it was terrifying, but the angry little witch was closing quickly. This was not a good day. He clamped his teeth onto the frame of the doorway experimentally. Biting had worked earlier.

Gabrielle reached Soleil just as he had decided that the stall did not mind being bitten, and did not taste good. So close to the goal, Gabrielle recklessly pressed her onslaught, and slapped the Abraxan as high on his rear quarter as she could reach. The hoof barely grazed her torso as the startled Soleil jumped forward into the stall.

The triumph was fleeting. Gabrielle could now see why the animal was so resistant. The stall was too small for Soleil by half. He would not be able to turn around, and so could not see a way out. Already the big colt was whinnying plaintively in distress, and kicking the frame.

This was the professor's fault also, decided Gabrielle. Did he not see, not know, that the stall was undersized? If he had just looked first, then she would still be home and might not have had to come at all. Gabrielle turned back to the barricades to find him, and found a dozen wizards and witches watching her warily. Several had their wands out; all looked at her like she had completely lost her senses. Gabrielle turned to the near frantic Soleil, a blush rushing up her neck. Keeping her back to these observers, she extracted the metal overshoes.

"Soleil! Eh, calm down. Please? I am, eh, coming in," tried Gabrielle. If she was going to talk to the beast, then she would prefer to talk to its head. Soleil quieted some, but still shuffled nervously. It was an easy thing to say, thought Gabrielle, but the stall really was too small and the Abraxan nearly filled it. She sighed, called his name again, and ducked her head to go between the colt's legs and their floor-shaking hooves.

v - v - v - v - v

"Mademoiselle Delacour? Are you hurt?" called Professor Elevagre. Gabrielle could not see him; Soleil filled the space. She had pulled the netting from the colt's wings. That seemed to help some, even though it did not change his predicament at all. The song she sang to him also helped. It was really about unicorns, but Gabrielle just changed that to Abraxan. It did not quite rhyme properly, but Soleil did not notice.

"I am fine," replied Gabrielle. That was mostly true. Where the hoof had grazed her hurt, especially when she reached up. There was more room near Soleil's head, but there was not really enough air in the stall - at least not fresh air. The Abraxan breathed a lot, and his breath stank.

"Oh, good. I thought I heard moaning."

"Non, I - eh, what?" The professor said the oddest things at times. Gabrielle then remembered that this was his fault. Probably his fault. "Professor, the stall is too small for Soleil. He can not turn around! How can he get out?" She left off the part demanding to know why he, her Outstanding, had failed to notice this.

"Unfortunately, this is the largest size available. Transporting a magical beast any larger requires I.C.W. permits," explained Elevagre. "And more budget."

"Eh, can you not make it bigger?" asked Gabrielle. The wizarding tents were bigger inside than outside, after all.

"The Ministry could hardly charge more for a larger size if I could, so no," replied the professor patiently. Gabrielle had not thought of that, but it had been a very trying day. The gamekeeper continued as if testing an idea, "An ice-floor jinx, I think. The netting will -"

"The netting?" blurted Gabrielle. "I took it off him."

"Or, failing that, we can make another door," suggested Elevagre after a loud sigh. "So much for the deposit."

"Eh, what?"

"The stall is made from barren wood, though, and nullified iron. We will have to get a , a, uh... it's a metal blade but with teeth, kind of like a very large, heavy bread knife. Can't think of the name for it - muggles use them."

"Barren wood? What is that?" asked Gabrielle.

"You know how bowtruckles live in trees that are good for wands? Of course you do. The school used to have quite a large grove," reminded Professor Elevagre. That had been an accident, fumed Gabrielle to herself. Why bring it up again? "Such wood has an affinity for magic, and is described as fertile. Barren wood is the opposite, and is nearly impervous to magic. It's used for cages, for man or beast, for that reason."

"And, eh -"

"Nullified iron is the same, but only the goblins know its secrets," anticipated the professor. "The door may take some time - no magic, you see. I hope there is a muggle-born in camp, or at least someone who knows what to do with the blade-with-teeth."

"The saw," said Gabrielle. There was one on the knife from Gaston, except she doubted it would do her much good since the walls were probably thicker than the toothed edge was long.

v - v - v - v - v

"- and that, Monsieur Soleil, brings us back to Monsieur Poisseux's point, which is that this expedition is a complete raté." The Abraxan nickered and bobbed his head on cue. "Oh yes, I agree completely! The Goblet certainly did cheat, and I don't think you can trust Professor Festeller either," confided Gabrielle again. A long hour, maybe even longer, had passed without any visible or audible progress. There had been a heavy thud once, but that was followed by a snap-ching sound and then silence. Gabrielle suspected that she had been completely forgotten. If it were not for Soleil's continued and palpable nervousness, she would squeeze her way out and... well, probably not burn down the camp. A small signal fire, though, did not seem inappropriate.

To help pass the time, Gabrielle had pulled out some parchment to make a list of things her handbag should always have. Actually, she made her list on the second piece of parchment, since Soleil ate the first. Food and water were the first of the items, because she would then not be hungry or thirsty. Food was a category that needed another list. Dried fruits and dried meats were obvious, as were crackers. Gabrielle thought bread and cheese would go bad too quickly unless she learned to charm them. Muggles, she knew, put food in metal containers. The knife from Gaston had a sharp, key-like thingy that could open those. In a theoretical sense, at least, since Gabrielle had looked at the metal containers in the Toulier's pantry, and how the two things were meant to be used together was a mystery. It was something she could ask Philippe about.

"You know what, Monsieur Soleil? Monsieur Toulier would know how to use a saw." Philippe would probably know too, thought Gabrielle. She added "big muggle saw" to her list. Thinking of her squib friend, Gabrielle also decided that her specially bent wires in their little bundle should move to the handbag also. And, perhaps, one of the thin metal bars Philippe always seemed to have on him.

Gabrielle suddenly realized that she was acting like the wizards in Philippe's favorite stories - take away the magic and they were helpless. Philippe would not be helpless. Actually, came a second thought, Philippe would just not sit patiently. That was not the same as being able to get out. Still, it would be less boring.

A closer examination of the rear wall, which was the only one Gabrielle could get to easily with Soleil in the way, left her confident and confused. Confident because the stall had what looked like hinges, and confused because the hinges were on every side of the wall, even the top and bottom. She would, of course, have spotted them before, but the stall was very dim, the lower hinges very dirty, and the upper hinges were up near Soleil's ears, so they were not obvious at all. Gabrielle had never seen a door like this before. She suspected that all the hinges made it possible to open the door from the other side in any direction. Except this was not a door; otherwise, why would they need a saw? Gabrielle supposed it did not matter. There were hinges here, and pulling out the metal rod that held the hinge together was a reliable trick. She pawed through the handbag for the dragon-hide gloves, and her knife. The hinges along the floor were dirty and corroded by what would normally be found on the floor of a stall, so Gabrielle decided that those could stay. The lowest hinges on the sides were less dirty, and also in reach, so she started there.

While Gabrielle worked, she was gratified to hear that she was not forgotten, although it did not sound like things were going well on the other side of the wall. Or door. Someone had started a muggle petrol engine, Gabrielle could smell the exhaust, but its angry buzzing had stopped abruptly after a thump against the stall which was followed by shrieks of agony.

The hinge pins were difficult to remove. In fact, Gabrielle could not budge them at all. Nullified iron, she noticed, rusted. Soleil, however, could remove them, once Gabrielle had wrapped the heavy leather cord from her metal overshoes around the pins. A quick shake of the Abraxan's head was enough to yank them loose. The problem was that after taking apart the hinges on the left side, the door would still not open. Which, pointed out a second thought, was because it was a wall. This was, decided Gabrielle, very mechanical. The problem might be that there was no handle on the side inside the stall. Removing the pins from the right side of the door, eh, wall did not change matters either, and she wished Philippe could help. The bottom hinges were gross, which left only the top hinges. Those were the most difficult to extract, because Gabrielle had to essentially sit on the colt's head to reach the hinges and pry them out far enough to wrap the leather around them. Then she had to be lowered to the ground, and Soleil had to reach up, find, and grasp the leather in his teeth without help.

The last pin at the top was the most difficult. It was jammed, and Soleil's first try did not shift it. A second effort also failed. Soleil, used, as he was, to having his will, glared at the recalcitrant joint. Gabrielle shrank back against the side wall - his eyes were furious.

With his third attempt, the colt reared up, planted his front legs on the wall for leverage, and tore the pin free. The wall, attached only at the floor, tilted away, outward. It was now a door. The unexpected movement startled Soleil, and he kicked out with his front legs to push himself away. Between the weight of the thick wooden wall and the might of the Abraxan, the bottom hinges, which Gabrielle could see were folding the wrong way, started to pull away from the floor. At least from part of the floor - a large, jagged section was still attached to the hinges. The rear wall, eh, door leaned way out, snapped free with a sound like a Weasley Wildfire going off in a cauldron, and crashed to the ground.

Sunlight replaced the dim shadows. Gabrielle sneezed, Soleil whinnied, and three wizards dressed in rugby shirts and hip-waders stared first at her, then Soleil, then the fallen wall, which was now very obviously never meant to be a door. Soleil started forward, intending a triumphal parade. Gabrielle could see that the wrecked wall was not laying flat, that it was not safe for the Abraxan. She sprang through the opening. "Non, Soleil. Stop!" The wall rocked beneath her; it had landed on something. A groan came from under it when Gabrielle and her iron boots crashed down.

"Uhn... unglück..."

"Eh - Oh no! Professor Festeller!"

v - v - v - v- v

Please, leave a review. It does help.

notes

1 A common wizarding world dismissal of things muggle.


	9. A Metric Ton

Chapter Nine - A Metric Ton

In the aftermath of the mishap, the word Gabrielle preferred as calling it a catastrophe was plainly exaggeration, she found herself being overlooked, which was a far better word than shunned. As if any of it had been her fault! Soleil had wrecked the camp before she had arrived, she was not the one who had even brought him, and Professor Festeller ending up squashed was just his bad luck. The pile of hinge pins was suspicious, but everyone was supposed to be trying to help with the rear wall. They, decided Gabrielle, should be thanking her, considering the number of injuries caused by the muggle chaining-saw.

Soleil was currently quiet in the dreaded stall. Gabrielle had draped the magical netting across the opened end mostly to remind him to stay put. Which the colt seemed willing to do since there was a lot to entertain him, between the camp being rebuilt and the rescue of the professor. Especially the rescue of Professor Festeller, since no magic could be used on the wall itself, and the various attempts ended with the wooden slab dropping back onto the trapped wizard. Which was not funny at all, at least when it was happening. Eventually a wizard named Stanislaw, who was one of the three wearing hip-waders, came up with the idea of vanishing the dirt under Professor Festeller so that he went down instead of the wall needing to go up. The sight of his reddened face slowly sinking - was - a little funny.

Gabrielle dragged a bale of hay, soaked in whiskey, over for Soleil. Dragged, because she was not sure what exactly was happening, so she was reluctant to use the little wand, in case this counted for the next school term. Since it was getting late, she determined that it was time to find Professor Elevagre, and to make sure he understood that she was going back. And, of course, that he had to take her back.

She found, or rather heard, Professor Elevagre in what was probably Professor Festeller's tent, where the injured wizard had been levitated to by the frazzled healer. Gabrielle had wanted the medi-witch to examine where she had been kicked, but the healer had been closing up a really nasty gash on a wizard's leg at the time, and her expression suggested the cure might be worse. There was some loud discussion going on inside the tent, sometimes in German. Gabrielle did not think interupting would be a good idea, so she sat down at the open tent flap to listen. That is, corrected a second thought, to wait.

"We can salvage the Thurlow lenses, at least three of them, but the Gleasson Aparati are beyond even magic," reported a sour voice.

"That's three hundred galleons right there," said a different, worried voice. Gabrielle thought perhaps it was that Stanislaw.

"It is no problem," gasped out Professor Festeller. "We will do it the, yes, old way."

"That may be possible, but it will take time. The equipment must be paid back."

"The quarantine stall too. The desposit, replacement, and penalties," added Professor Elevagre. He did not sound like that was the worst news.

"I think, yes, that can be accommodated," said Professor Festeller, ending his reassurance in a coughing fit.

"It's another two hundred galleons!" exploded Elevagre. "How do you have the budget?"

"Remember our agreement," reminded Stanislaw. "These do not come out of -" Festeller interrupted him in German, and a heated exchange followed which meant nothing to Gabrielle. She did note that the professor would run out of air before running out of sentence.

"Why did you have the bring the hell-born beast already?" complained the unknown voice.

"Ministry regulations. You have to do the quarantine, not the school," replied Elevagre. "The girl is here now, it... should be... all right." Gabrielle did not like the sound of that at all. It made it seem like the girl not being here was not even a possibility.

"A student. Five hundred galleons. This is madness," said an angered Stanislaw.

"The Goblet is not a trivial matter," groaned the history professor. "The girl, yes, will be useful." More German followed. Gabrielle decided to stay out of Stanislaw's way; he did not sound like the friendly type. Festeller's words made her wonder. While she was glad that he recognized her burgeoning talents - the cream always rises to the top - Gabrielle did not like the way he had said useful. She could imagine it: the opening to the dirty, dark beyond is too small. What should we do? Who can we get?

The arrival of the healer, who looked hot, tired, and had missed some of the blood on her robes, ended the meeting. Or at least changed the topic to how much work there was, how many supplies were already used up, and how this was not the way she wanted to spend her summer. Gabrielle agreed with the last sentiment, and when her Natural Arts professor retreated from the tent Gabrielle was quickly on him.

"Eh, professor? I am ready to go." Gabrielle decided to start with a polite suggestion, and a smile that hopefully projected satisfaction with a job well-done. Done, being the key.

It was, perhaps, a little too much for a facial expression to convey, because the professor looked at her blankly and asked, "Go? What do you mean?"

"Soleil is in his stall, and the stall is, eh," started Gabrielle. Fixed was probably not the word she was looking for. "The stall is, eh, more to his liking. The problem is solved, yes?"

"Oh. Yes, that is true, but you will have to take care of him. I thought that was clear when your trunk was packed."

No, thought Gabrielle, it was not clear, just implied, which was not the same at all. Denial, labeled a mean thought. "Why can you not look after him?" asked Gabrielle. She hoped that sounded reasonable, and not desperate.

"The main herd is my reward," said Elevagre. That, recognized Gabrielle, was his more usual tone.

"Eh, why is Soleil here, Professor? The, eh, others don't seem to want him." Gabrielle did not want him to think she had been eavesdropping. Which she had not been doing. Intentionally. Five hundred galleons, though - and that was just today. How much would it be in a week? "You should just take Soleil back to Beauxbatons."

"Soleil is here for you, since you can not fly a broom. I will -"

"What? I can - so - fly a broom," blurted Gabrielle. She liked to fly. For as long as it lasted, came a traitorous thought.

"Not well enough to keep up."

"It is the school's brooms! If I had a new -"

"Mademoiselle Delacour, the best you ever did was three-quarters of a course, using either of my own custom quidditch brooms from my school days," explained Gabrielle's Outstanding. "I will fit the saddle to you. I'm sure Soleil will do what you want."

Gabrielle stood open-mouthed. Those were custom brooms? They looked so... used. Thank Merlin she had not put them into her handbag! And so what if she could not keep up? She did not want to be there at all. As for Soleil, she doubted that the Abraxan would do anything that he did not want to do, whether she wanted it or not. Although, Gabrielle had to admit to herself, riding the colt would be very cool too. She was not finished arguing, though. "If, eh, it was a - new - custom broom, then it would work, eh, better, yes?"

"It's not how it looks, it's what's under the bristles that counts," said Elevagre defensively. "Professor Festeller's apparently near-bottomless budget is already down five hundred galleons because of Soleil," noted the professor a mite jealously. "I very much doubt he would spend that again on a broom for you."

"Harry Potter has a Firebolt," said Gabrielle half to herself.

"It's good to dream. I'll show which tent is yours."

v - v - v - v - v

"All I'm saying is that there were nicer cars at the last place. Why can't we get one of them instead of this rusty old -" asked Ron Weasley before a voice that came from under the car's steering column interrupted.

"Because, dear brother, muggles quite like to find their cars just where they left them. Newer cars have wires you can hardly even see. And alarms." It was George, who was pulling wires apart like spaghetti. Harry knew it was George because Fred and Verity were having their pictures taken while sitting on the stone wall near the old barn, which was 'French and picturesque'. "Ah, here we go." The car's horn blew briefly, but loudly. "Sorry! It's this one." The engine puttered to life, with a bluish tinge to the car's exhaust.

"Why are we doing this again? We could just fly," suggested Harry. Again.

"It's risky during the day, should the disillusionment charms fail. We'll make better time this way," replied George, looking at the vehicle proudly. Must be in the Weasley genes, thought Harry.

"With all of us in it? I don't think this piece of junk's up to it," doubted Ron. "What's the stick in the middle then?"

"That's for the gearbox. Bit hard to explain, but you know when you've got it wrong," said George. "Er, we should probably be going."

"Stealing a car isn't risky?" asked Harry. He liked his plan. It needed the Firebolt and Ginny holding on tight.

"'S not stealing. Not exactly stealing. We'll give it back - swear on my wand. Practically scrap anyway."

"That's what I was saying," added Ron. "Not much room either."

"We don't have to go too far, just an hour or two to meet up with our man Toulier," explained George, his eyes looking past the photogenic barn. "We really should be going. Er, now. Oy Fred! Bludger on your eight."

The other Weasley twin slipped off the wall and took aim at the pigs dozing in the sun. Nothing happened the first time, but with a second wave a pair of pigs was up, over the fence, and running hard.

"Another reason to go for a right classic - it barely stuttered there," said George, as if proud of the run-down vehicle, a very old Citroën 2CV. "Use the wrong spell and some new cars need a repair garage before they'll run again."

"Just how often do you do this?" wondered Ginny.

"Go on, get in," ignored George. The engine coughed and hesitated as he tapped the car with his wand, twice. The first spell was obvious - the car was no longer a pale, faded blue with patches of rust, but a rather hard to look at bright yellow. The second spell lacked the dramatic effect of the first.

"You didn't hurt those pigs, did you? What did you do?" demanded Hermione. She had been the photographer, and now gave Verity back her camera.

"Hurt a pig? The source of bacon?" replied Fred. "Just a Follow-Me charm and a... pinch of motivation." He looked at the car unhappily.

"What?" asked George.

"No racing stripes? You know I like racing stripes."

"They don't really make a car go faster. And you know I can never quite get them straight," admitted George.

"Nothing will make this car go faster, but it'll look like it has it's hand in," said Fred. "I'll drive."

"Oy, the steering wheel's on the wrong side!" called Ron from inside the car.

"No, Ron, it isn't," said Hermione, leaning in through the window.

"Are you daft? It is."

"Erm, it's a bit noticeable already, isn't it?" suggested Harry, considering the stripe question dubiously.

"Not to muggles, what with the Look-Away charm," explained George.

"One drives on the right in France," informed Hermione. "Surely you knew?"

"Are they going to start up again?" asked Fred.

"Why don't we all get in?" hinted George. "We can lay odds as we drive away from this near-crime scene."

"Er, um, yeah. I knew that. 'Course. What's that to do with the steering wheel being on my side, though?" asked Ron again.

"If you drive on the other side of the road, then the driver has to drive on the other side of the car," said Hermione. "It's like a mirror, you see?"

"A mirror? Then why are the pedals the right way round?"

"Just get in, will you?" insisted Ginny, using Hermione's legs to push the older girl further in through the window.

"Stop it, Ginny!" protested Hermione. "Stop - that, - Ron."

"I'm just trying to help you!"

"I can - feel - what you're trying to do. Stop shoving, you cow! It isn't funny!" exclaimed Hermione. She was attempting to push herself back out of the window while a laughing Ginny was trying to do the opposite.

"How did we even get this far?" asked Harry.

v - v - v - v - v

Harry sat in the back of the car, with Ginny comfortably snuggled on his lap. He was a little scrunched up, but was quite proud of himself. He had avoided the front passenger position, and thus the watchful eyes of the older Weasley brothers, by pointing out that it was likely he would be recognized because of newspaper photos from the Tri-Wizard tournament. Constant vigilance dictated that he sit in the less exposed back. Ron and Hermione sat in the back also, because Ron kept trying to help with the gearbox. It could have been, thought Harry, a clever plan on his best mate's part also, but one could never tell. Verity did not mind moving to the front. She could see better, and the front seats were declared better for Fred's back. Verity also had the map, a thing that Fred and George did not feel the need to consult. That may have been because it only showed the location of town-halls and churches, which needed to be photographed.

Another reason for eschewing the map, realized Harry, was that George had a very open definition of road. The over-taxed motor of the old Citroën proved incapable of the rapid speed changes of magically enhanced vehicles like the Knight Bus, and even strained to keep up with the other cars on the motorway. George compensated for this by cutting across fields, if he liked the look of the road on the other side of them, and by using alleys or walkways. This was usually accompanied by the gearbox letting George know that he had not got it right, and, when it came to alleys, the scrape of metal on brickwork.

It was at yet another photo stop that Harry's patience began to wear thin. He left Ginny and Hermione to dissuade Ron from foraging in the local bread-shop, and addressed George, who was watching Fred annoy Verity. She was attempting to photograph Fred in front of a war memorial statue of a soldier and a dog. With impeccable timing, the Weasley twin would transform his face just as the shutter opened. "George, what are we doing here? I think we've been going in circles! I thought we were going to meet this, er, Toulier fellow?"

"Yes. Sad spectacle, the dim, doting husband thing, isn't it?"

"Erm, yeah. What?" Harry shook his head. It was easy to go off lines with the twins. "When are we going to meet him?'

"Hard to guess that now. Depends, I suppose, on how much film she brought," sighed George. "Fred's doing his best to use it up."

"Couldn't this Toulier have met us at the tunnel, in, um, Coquelles?"

"Well, yes. But you know, Harry, our young apprentice, a lot of magic is simply knowing what the other wizard doesn't. Your best spell is the one your opponent doesn't know you can use. I'd rather have the old duffer think I can appear at any time, any place," explained George.

"Can't we do anything to speed this up?" asked Harry.

"Could be, could be. Got some place to be, have you? Someone to meet, mayhaps?" smirked George, an eyebrow raised inquisitively.

Harry tried to keep his face neutral. He now realized that more thought should have been put into the story to cover the purpose of the trip. A research expedition to Paris, to search a wizarding bookseller's rare collection, had expanded to include a stop at Delacour Manor. At the time it sounded like a good idea, remembered Harry. George had explained that it would make the currency exchange easier. His simple offer to help with transport led to Ginny's demand to go, which meant Fred and George insisted, and ended with Verity's inclusion. Harry had to wonder if claiming that the bookseller was in Albania in the first place would have damped down the enthusiasm. "Erm, no. Your Mum would be happier if we kept the whole thing short."

"I'm still in awe of the way you handled Mum when it came time to leave," said George. "You could work in Romania with Charlie. Fred and I would mostly try to out-run her."

"Look, we're all -"

"'Course we never kept a little ring-box in our pockets, all ready to tumble out on cue, either. Not usually," continued George, looking back toward Fred. His brother was dodging Verity and her swinging camera. "Is there even anything in it?"

Harry looked at this shoes. "Not, not yet." His answer, Harry realized in horror, implied that he was lying to Ginny and her Mum. "The, erm, intent is in it, though."

"Good wheeze there," nodded George, a bit of an edge to his voice. After an uneasy moment, he added, "You should probably be wondering what it'll take to keep that tidbit from Ginny."

"It's, it's not like that. I... I just, erm - Oh!"

"Well that's sorted, at least," brightened George. Fred had managed to disable the camera by the simple means of placing his head in such a way that it intersected the arc of Verity's annoyance. The device lay in pieces on the ground. Fred also lay on the ground, whole but stunned, with Verity kneeling next to him. She was torn between tending the bleeding cut on his head where the camera had hit, and throttling him for not ducking more. Harry could tell that by the way she alternated between the two actions. "Should be able to make better time now," noted George.

v - v - v - v - v

The tent assigned to Gabrielle was bigger inside than it appeared outside. Much, much bigger, since it was originally intended to house seven students. So much bigger that Gabrielle felt too small in it. Each student would have a suite, with a bedroom, sitting area, and, Gabrielle was glad to see, their own lavatory. There was a large common room as well, decorated, Gabrielle supposed, with hunting trophies on the dark paneling. Some growled as she passed, or stared as if wishing for revenge. It was a room to pass through. There was no kitchen, but there was an eating area. That made twenty empty rooms looming outside her door. Gabrielle addressed the problem by taking the extra, unused mattresses from the other rooms and propping them around and over her bed. It was a room inside a room, and it helped a lot.

Night had fallen. The rest of the day had passed quickly as Gabrielle worked with Professor Elevagre. He taught her a basic vanishing spell - something which was unexpected. The new magic would be used when she mucked out Soleil's stall - something which was unanticipated. The professor had tried to re-size the huge saddle for Gabrielle, but the Abraxan's back was too broad and Gabrielle's legs could not reach the stirrups properly. It was also not something to try while in a skirt. In any case, Soleil did not seem to notice when Gabrielle pulled and tugged at the reins. She found it easier to inch her way along and up his neck to point, which alarmed her professor. Gabrielle, though, did not see the reason for the concern. She reasoned that Soleil was much larger than a broom, with much more to hold onto, and so was safer. She did not like to admit it, but the colt's flight was steadier than any of her flights on a school broom. Even with the powerful wings beating. Elevagre insisted that she be attached to Soleil somehow, and so said he would return in a few days with a harness.

Which meant that he apparated away, and Gabrielle was left behind, alone and forgotten. Not completely alone, of course, because there were perhaps a dozen wizards and at least a few witches in the camp. But she did not know them and they did not appear to be interested in her. Gabrielle supposed that the repairs to their belongings took their full attention, which might have been why no one called her for dinner. A second thought suspected that it was intended as a punishment, unjustly applied. A third thought was somewhat relieved, as the main course was some sort of horrible stew, all gluey and congealed. Gabrielle just had some of the leftover bread and cheese, and took the rest back to her room, in case they forgot her for breakfast.

Gabrielle, once safely secreted within the padded walls of Fort Delacour, glumly consider the dreary, tiring weeks ahead. The maintenance of Soleil was daunting. Assuming, calculated Gabrielle, that he did not gain much weight each day, then what she dragged to the front of Soleil for him to eat would be what she would have to rake out from the other end. She could then vanish the... it, given enough time, but the, eh, it would still have to be moved from the stall first, lest something go wrong with the spell. The daily effort was not offset by the hour of exercise, of flying, Soleil was allowed by the quarantine rules.

"There is also the bedding," said Gabrielle, half to herself. If she had it right, then she would be moving a metric ton a week, between things going into and things coming out of the Abraxan. The other half of what Gabrielle said was for Poisseux, because there was no one else to talk to. The spellotape toad hopped fitfully about the bed. He did not appear to be paying close attention to what Gabrielle was saying, but since he could not answer her anyway it did not disrupt the conversation. Gabrielle decided that she would show him the vanishing spell later. That would make him happy. Right now, though, Poisseux was looking for something. It was easy to guess the object of his search. He had no possessions and did not need food or water. Gabrielle knew he was looking for Pepi-Z. She pulled over the tan blouse she had worn earlier, having changed into George's old quidditch jersey for sleeping. She had put Pepi-Z into the breast pocket - perhaps the other pocket - one of the pockets... The zombie puffskein was not there, but Gabrielle clearly recalled putting him in before she left home with Professor Elevagre. Though it would be difficult for him, Pepi-Z must have managed to roll himself out, so she searched the bed and bedding. And under the bed, and between the fortress walls, which accidentally caused a portion of her enclosed refuge to collapse. The walls and ceiling were mattresses, thankfully, so it had not hurt and Poisseux was fine.

But the woolly red bobble was not anywhere to be found. It was possible little Pepi-Z had been blown out of her pocket when she was riding Soleil. That might, thought Gabrielle, mean that he was actually okay, since he was pretty soft and, frankly, already dead. A fall to the ground would not hurt her puffball of a pet. She could look for him tomorrow. Gabrielle was confident that, while Pepi-Z might be lost in the forest, he would not roll further from camp. He was really at his best rolling downhill on a smooth surface; a line of pebbles could stop him. Of course, if there were squirrels in the forest...

That was an awful thought, and Gabrielle pushed it away, which left a spot for an even worse one that a panicked second thought shoved to the fore. What if Pepi-Z had fallen out while she had been cleaning Soleil's stall? What if she had vanished him? He might be gone forever! Had she killed her first pet, George's first gift? Of course, rationalized Gabrielle, killed was a difficult concept with a zombie. Anyway, Pepi-Z was red and what she had been cleaning up was nearly every color but red. And blue. It was a thought that made her shudder - a metric ton! Surely she would have noticed Pepi-Z? Unfortunately, the worried thought knew the answer to that. She had not wanted to see it, smell it, and especially not move it around with a rake. It would have been easy for the former puffskein to fall, be buried, and then vanished with a flourish of the favorite blond wand.

If anything could have made the summer worse, thought Gabrielle mournfully, this was it. This was the second poor creature, Gabrielle guiltily realized, that she had killed this week. Although, of course, both circumstances had been completely accidental. Nearly three creatures, really, if one counted Professor Festeller. Gabrielle thought about that, and decided that he did not, in fact, count. This was all his fault, him and that stupid Goblet. It was also her mother's fault for buying the weird muggle blouses in the first place.

The sight of Poisseux still slowly hopping around the bed turned the growing anger into crushing despair. It was the saddest thing she had ever seen. Would the faux toad ever understand that his fellow zombie was gone? Or would he continue his search for an eternity? Tears were in her eyes when she gathered him up. "Oh Poisseux, I'm so sorry," wept Gabrielle. She bowed her head to his to commiserate, and ignored the terrible thought that the scene would be far more touching if he was warm and fuzzy and not struggling. Gabrielle raised her head to break the bad news to him, and spotted her handbag.

This was a ray of hope. She - might - have put Pepi-Z in there to keep him safe from Soleil. Even if she did not recall doing so, and even if she almost never did so. it was a possibility, thought Gabrielle, and - not - just denial.

When she opened the handbag, though, Gabrielle remembered why it was she did not put Pepi-Z in it. Not usually put him in it - there could be - were - exceptions. None that, admittedly, came to mind at the moment. The magic liner was full of stuff. Not full as in having reached capacity, that did not seem to be a problem, but full as in having a large number objects something small could get lost between. Even the zombie puffskein's bright color would be much help, due to the leftover sample Wheezes and the crumpled packaging the orders had come in. Gabrielle had been too afraid to dispose of the wrappings at Beauxbatons, for fear of being discovered. Interestingly, the stashed items did not shift around, least that she could tell. Poisseux was always put in a particular spot, to make him easy to find. The liner, guessed Gabrielle, was somehow keeping things from moving. It was something she wanted to learn more about from George. There were other things she wanted to learn from George too, but now was not the time for daydreams. Especially if she had to pick out Pepi-Z amongst all the accumulated clutter. Things looked very far away in the liner, but she knew from experience that they were within reach. It would take a while to -

A wand, smiled Gabrielle, helps one get what one wants. She wanted Pepi-Z, she had a wand, and she had a spell to get what she wanted. All Gabrielle needed now was space. She propped the handbag on its side, on the wooden chair of the sitting area, and backed up through the door of the lavatory. Gabrielle chose to use the 'Special Parry-Thrust' technique, with its overhead sweep of the wand during the jump, followed by the fully extended arm-thrust. It hardly ever failed, particularly if she knew about where the desired object was. And it was close.

"_Accio Pepi-Z!_" shouted Gabrielle. It was, in her judgement, a very good parry, very dramatic, with the final thrust leaving the wand's point just at the handbag's opening. It was perfect execution, aside from the fact that her beloved red bobble did not appear. Which made sense, noted a second thought, because he is never put in there.

Instead of sending her back to the dungeon of despair, though, the unsuccessful attempt made Gabrielle realize that she could rescue her pet right now, if he was lost in the woods Soleil had flown over. She just needed to use the technique that Philippe had dubbed the 'France 2 Transmitter'. The move was a leap, landing on one knee, then jumping up with the wand extended upwards in both hands. The Transmitter was good for when she was not certain where the target was, except that it was really close. Or it was really light, which was why Gabrielle thought it work work to save Pepi-Z. Even though Gabrielle was reluctant to admit it, the wand with her Grandmere's hair was a better choice for the attempt than her petite blond wand. It was especially true in situations like this, where a little more strength was needed. Gabrielle wondered if the rustic wand somehow knew it had a chance to show up its rival.

The common room, with its creepy decor, was dark. Gabrielle left it that way as she made her way through the seating, since the flickering candle light would only make things worse. There was no growling now, only soft grunts. Gabrielle opened the tent flap, backed up a few paces, and executed the maneuver. "_Accio Pepi-Z!_" she cried out again as the dark, twisted wand went skyward in her clasped hands. She concentrated on Pepi-Z, which was very hard to do as the camp site was not completely deserted, she was wearing only the quidditch jersey, and, with her arms raised up like they were, she was sure the jersey was not completely covering her underwear. Certainly she was attracting curious looks from the loitering wizards. Gabrielle wondered if she should just skip breakfast no matter what. But this was for Pepi-Z and the distraught Poisseux, though, so she remained in the stance.

Gabrielle lost the spell when something hit her in the back of the head. Surprisingly, it was Pepi-Z. He had not, realized Gabrielle, been lost in the forest or been vanished. The reconstructed puffskein must have fallen from her pocket when she was moving the mattresses. Relief that she had not killed him, and no small pride in her spellwork, left Gabrielle giddy. She rushed back to Poisseux to reunited her pets, crashing to the ground a moment later. A Lumos spell would have been handy, came the second thought.

v - v - v - v - v

Narcissa Malfoy, dressed, as was her wont these wretched days, in the severest of black, stared at the envelope sitting in the hearth. The height of cheek, an insolent Postal owl had dropped it down the flue. Another indication of how far proper society had decayed: owls disobeying explicit instructions. Lucius would have had words with the owner, when all was right with the world. But he and Draco were both taken from her now, and the Malfoy name meant nothing, even to birds.

Madame Malfoy raised her wand to incinerate the impudent correspondence. A large portion of the avian frustration was engendered by her habit of refusing almost all post. The comings and goings of wizarding society felt so meaningless now, and she had no energy to keep up with it in any case. The handwriting caught her eye before she set it alight. The missive was addressed, rather rudely, to Narcissa Malfoy, but the hand that wrote it was... Draco's? A check for curses revealed none, so Narcissa picked up the envelope and cautiously opened it.

It was a trick. The writing inside was untidy and uncouth, lacking Draco's practiced grace. And not even a proper salutation, a sure sign of low-breeding. Madame Malfoy unfolded the rest of the parchment to determine to whom she would direct her ire. A lock of white-blond hair, held together sloppily with spellotape, fell from the note to the floor. Narcissa followed it, going weak at the knees. It was Draco's; a mother would recognize her own son's. She picked up the lock of hair with a trembling hand. What had they done to him?

A surge of anger and outrage bolstered Narcissa. What had they done to him? And what was this? An indecent ransom demand? She smoothed the creases and held it at a more comfortable distance for reading. This was a mistake on the part of those who held Draco. She would see to it that Snape saw to them.

It was not a ransom note, or a blackmail attempt, or even a cruel taunt. The message, from the Potter boy - she had been right about the low breeding, only said that her son was safe. It went on to assure her that Draco was also safe from the Dark Lord, and would remain hidden until the Dark Lord was 'bloody defeated for good'. Narcissa stared at the parchment, wondering what it was supposed to mean. Was she supposed to interpret this as a favor to be repaid later? Had Severus expected this? One thing that Narcissa was not one to trust was the altruistic act.

v - v - v - v - v

On a warm summer evening, the fire was not really needed. It crackled quietly now that Fred had quit throwing the novelty candles into it. The wax creations were a new product for the fall. When lit, the candle's flame would intermittently erupt with a fireball in the shape of fantastic, twisting animals. Throwing the whole candle into the fire released a truly immense fireball with a whole zoo of animals writhing in it. Harry reclined against a magically cushioned rock, not a bad effort, with a resting Ginny's head in his lap. He wondered if the bed curtains at Hogwarts were flame-proof; that would be something to see.

Harry knew it was Fred because of the proximity of Verity. She was mostly over the loss of her camera, which took a while since George managed to use some variation of the word picture or picturesque in just about every other sentence. At least riding in the back of Monsieur Toulier's lorry put an end to Fred's extolling the remarkable architecture of the passing buildings and the beauty of the landscape. The cargo area was large enough to hold the car, so it was levitated into the back and taken also. It was hard to see why, though.

The elder Toulier was dropped off at his home, where Harry met a git named Philippe who stared at Ginny way too much. Philippe gave Fred and George a thick sheaf of muggle paper with circles made from colored wedges on them; Fred looked at it like Neville Longbottom watching bloody Snape approaching over a potion. The whole of it ended up in Hermione's possession, which was not much of a surprise.

As far as Harry understood, the Touliers lived in a village not more than a half an hour's drive, at a muggle speed, from Delacour Manor. Delacour Manor itself was very near Paris. So it was a little puzzling as to why they were neither at Delacour Manor, nor in Paris. Instead, the seven travelers had set up a tent along the side of the road, just on the far side of an old stone bridge. The drivers of the few normal vehicles passing by did not notice the encampment. Neither did they notice the lorry balancing itself on the wheels of only one side. Fred, not to be outdone by his brother's liberal use of the landscape, had managed to hit the bridge, blowing out one of the tyres in the front. Hermione and Ron were trying to fix it, arguing about how round round should be, and were quite probably about to sneak off somewhere for a snog.

The map Verity had seemed to have gone missing, or at least she no longer felt the need to consult it. The young woman was using her wand to chop up a huge mound of vegetables for the evening meal. There did not appear to be any meat in the offing. It was, suspected Harry, her revenge for the needling she had endured before. Was it possible to get a proper English fry-up in France? Probably not without francs. Thankfully, Mrs. Weasley's reticence did not prevent her from providing a mountain of wrapped sandwiches for rations.

Harry was about to inquire after the map, and to suggest that a more direct approach to directions might, just possibly, reduce the travel time when Ginny shifted. "Why do you do that, George?" she asked.

"Do what?" grinned George, his hand casually sliding back out of his shirt front.

"Not that. You've been looking in all the mugs," said Ginny. Harry put down his half-emptied tea. Camping with the twins would be a challenge. "And why do you have a bowl of water next to you?"

"The finger bowl? Got to keep up practice. We get about in rather high society these -"

"He's being watched, by wizard or wizards unknown, as they say," interrupted Fred. "Might be one of Moldy Old Voldy's crowd."

"Being watched?" asked Harry. Why was that not mentioned before? He looked along the now empty road, and at the nearby woods.

"Could be the Ministry, or a ministry, or even industrial espionage. I thought you were putting an end to it?" asked Fred.

"Ah. Well. It's not - " started George. There was sudden groan of metal crumpling.

"Honestly Ron! Watch what you're doing," came Hermione's complaint.

"I am! What's this ruddy bit stickin' out for anyway?" demanded Ron peevishly.

"It's a fender."

"Yeah? More like a bender now. What's the bloody thing for?"

"Ron! It, it, er, fends. It keeps things from hitting the wheel," explained Hermione.

"Oh Merlin, please don't let him try and fix it," said Fred fervently.

"That's daft! The whole side of the wheel is wide open," argued Ron. There was a long creak, and a sound like a steel drum being hit.

"Where's that tally from Philippe?" sighed George.

"One is normally moving forward when driving," replied Hermione over more noise. "It only has to cover the front."

"Not much help for Fred then," noted Ron as the noise died away.

"It was the bloody bridge," announced Fred. "Too narrow for modern vehicles. An unsafe condition that should be redressed by the appropriate agencies."

"You do read the letters from the solicitors!" laughed George.

"That's... not bad, Ron. It's quite good, actually."

"You like?" said Ron in a deeper, huskier voice. Too loud, thought Harry. Thankfully whatever Hermione said, or did, wast not audible.

Fred and George both pantomimed vomiting in unison. When the long demonstration finished, George reached into his shirt and pulled out a dung bomb, which he tossed to Fred.

"Erm, just to be clear, we - you are being watched?" asked Harry. "Right now? How did they follow us?"

"Follow us? You must be joking. That's besmirching the Weasley name. Me and George know know more ways in-an-out than a two-sickle - er, thing that goes in and out a lot." George rolled his eyes at Fred's hurried glance at Verity. "No, someone's been scrying him." Ginny lifted her head, interested.

"Might be scrying - I believe those were my exact words," clarified George.

"Scrying? Like what Fleur's little sister did?" It was Ron, leading the way and holding Hermione's hand. Harry tried to remember if the scrying was supposed to be a secret or not. "We can ask her."

"The little perv!" giggled Ginny.

"I knew it! I knew as soon as Harry started talking about the Delacours," crowed Fred.

"Given how little you do know, I imagine it was memorable," shot back George.

"The succubus sings her siren song and you follow," said Fred dramatically. "He does write, you know. Nothing escapes me," he added for the others.

"Your sanity seems to have done. Anyways, that's a harpy. You were always pants at 'Beasts," said George.

"What are you two on about?" asked Ron. He indicated Verity's efforts. "Did you get a rabbit?"

"It's for soup à la Bretonne. Vegetables have anti-accidents," explained Verity.

"I think you mean anti-oxidants?" offered Hermione.

"Oh. Not nearly as useful then. The fiber is very healthy."

"So, who is spying on us?" asked Harry. Even though Gabrielle had found Wormtail for them, it had never occurred to him that the reverse could happen.

"Not spying, scrying. And not us, just my dear brother," corrected Fred.

"If you dump that load on the ground, maybe we could trap a few rabbits and eat them," suggested Ron helpfully.

"I - suspected - scrying, and who it might be remains unknown," asserted George.

"Yet before you claimed it wasn't the Ministry or You-Know-Who," accused Fred. "And you're carrying a letter in your pocket that you haven't posted."

"While your carrying a ring in your pocket that you haven't given."

Seeing Fred and George at odds was unusual and uncomfortable. It was a very awkward scene, thought Harry. Verity looked like she might explode from joy, Fred looked like he might explode from anger, and George from irritation. The frozen moment ended as one might expect from the twins. The dung bomb exploded.


	10. Ready

Chapter Ten - Ready

Harry Potter woke to the aroma of cooking. It ought to have been a powerful reminder of some of the best times in his life, when he would wake in the sanctuary of the Burrow to Mrs. Weasley cooking. But there was something off about the smells, something that was not quite right, that did not fit. Wracking his brain in his current muzzy state was not helping. Harry rolled from his bedroll, kicked Ron as a wake-up call, and found himself dangling from the ceiling by one leg. A helpful sign dangled in front of his face, hung upside-down to match his current state. It read, "Constant vigilance!" I hope, thought Harry, that there's one for Ron too. "Oy Ron! Wake up!"

There - was - a similar prank for Ron, and, too late, Harry changed his mind about his wishes. One reason was that there was no one with a wand available to help now. Another was that Ron was definitely not a morning person, though it was not obvious at the moment from the amount of noise he was making. There was nothing for it now, though, but to wait it out while the inside of the tent slowly twisted by. It looked like Ginny and Hermione were already up, noticed Harry. He could see over the blankets that divided the tent now.

Ron wound down, and when Harry finally completed his revolution he faced a sour-faced friend. "You're a real tit, you know that?" accused Ron.

"What? They're your brothers," said Harry.

Ron did not reply, but turned his dangling sign so it faced Harry. It read, "Didn't Harry warn you?"

"All right, sorry. But there's no need to fly to the bludger," said Harry. "Do you smell that?"

Ron took a deep whiff. "Yeah. It's porridge. Why?"

"Oh. I, erm, thought it smelled a little off."

"Porridge, toasts, eggs... and jam. Nothing good frying yet."

"Ah," said Harry. That's what was missing: the comforting smell of bacon or sausages frying.

"I could've slept until the bacon was ready, if it weren't for you messin' about," complained Ron.

"I don't think there will - be - any bacon, Ron."

"You - you're joking, right?"

"I don't think so," replied Harry to the incredulous question. The two boys had drifted around so they faced away from each other again. There has to be a counter, thought Harry.

"And he's going to propose? Do you think Fred knows?" Harry did not answer. Instead, he tried to concentrate on how he wanted to be. With a clear enough picture in one's head, one could then make the image real. Allegedly. Harry had never managed it in his few attempts, and Hermione thought it was more philosophy than practical magical instruction. "Harry? Did you faint or something? Probably the blood rushing to his head. Bloody twins! I'll kill 'em. I'll - "

"I didn't faint," interrupted Harry, giving up his concentration. Ron might be the reason he had trouble with the technique. The other possibility was that it was a load of dung. "I was trying to get down."

"Yeah? How?"

"Um, by, erm, thinking about it?" The approach sounded a lot more like dung explained that like that. Ron did not say anything, but started to whistle.

v - v - v - v - v

Breakfast was light and refreshing, and light. But refreshing. It would, judged Harry, be at least a couple of hours before he was hungry again. Possibly less for Ron. Probably less for Ron.

"Do you think Hermione would do the cooking?" asked Ron. He scanned the empty pots forlornly.

"You can be the one to ask her," replied Harry.

"Ask whom what?" Hermione dragged the collapsed tent over, and began working it into one of the small boxes the twins had given her.

"Yes, Ron, now's your chance to ask, after she's spent the morning breaking camp," encouraged Ginny.

"What is it, Ron?"

"Er, I, er, wanted to know..." started Ron. He swallowed loudly and reddened noticeably, before breaking into a grin. "How can your hair look so brilliant after sleeping in that ruddy tent?"

Hermione opened her mouth, then shut it, rasing an eyebrow suspiciously. "My hair?"

"Yeah, it's fu- it looks really good this morning."

"Hmm..." said Hermione.

"Really, really good."

"I just used this little thing called a 'comb'," said Hermione. "I realize it may be something unknown to you boys."

"I tried," said Harry defensively. "It just doesn't last."

"You're fine Harry," put in Ginny. "It's the Sorcerer of Scruff there who needs to shine up a bit." Harry was pleased with that assessment, but now realized that he should have complimented Ginny also.

"Go to hell, Ginny," snapped Ron. Harry suspected that Ron was trying to be angry, but there was too much relief in his voice.

"What Ron wanted to ask, was -" began Ginny.

"Was, do you have a map of the area, in there?" Harry jumped in to keep the peace, earning him a quick jab from Ginny for spoiling her fun. He supposed he deserved that.

"No, no I don't. There was an atlas at the Burrow, but I don't think it had been updated for centuries," replied Hermione.

"Your hair looks nice too," whispered Harry to Ginny.

"Real original Harry. But thanks."

"We had an atlas?" wondered Ron.

"It's maps in a book, Ron," said Ginny. "You wouldn't have gone near it."

"I was hoping to buy a set of muggle maps. Maps with all the landmarks, not just the few magical ones. Did you know in that atlas Paris is shown as a port?" asked Hermione, as if it was a profound indictment of the whole study of magical cartography. She reached into the box again and pulled out a bacon sandwich, which she handed to Ron, who accepted it with a look of surprised wonder. He bit into it, putting nearly a third of it into his mouth.

"'Ou 'ill marr' me, 'ight?" asked Ron around a mouthful, some of which sprayed out on the last syllable.

"Not at the moment, no," replied Hermione, wrinkling her nose. She tapped a grass clump with her wand, which grew tall and thick enough to block the view of her boyfriend eating.

"Figured out how the boxes work, have you?" It was probably George, with a chance of being Fred. He sounded disappointed. Harry looked around for Verity.

"A bit. That was a nasty trick you tried, to put the really useful scrolls at the very bottom," said Hermione.

"I didn't think you'd fall for it. Get the original out?"

"No. I, erm, made a copy."

"Huh," said the twin. It was a very judgemental exhalation.

Hermione's face pinked. "There wasn't time to do it properly!"

"Speaking of time," piped Harry, "when will we get to Delacour Manor?"

"Would have been there by now if you two flobberworms had gotten up earlier."

"We were up," insisted Harry. "We were, er -"

"Hangin' about?" suggested George.

"Yes, you sodding git. Very funny," said Ron from between the curtain of grass.

"How far are we from their house now?"

George pointed. "See that building over on the next rise?"

"What? You're joking, right?" blurted Ginny.

"Cor, it's a bloody mansion!" exclaimed Ron.

"Ron! It - is - rather large, but it's been in the family for centuries. It's mostly unused," informed Hermione.

"And you know that how?" asked Ginny.

"I asked Fleur. She'd tell you the complete family history from blue-green algae on unless you manage an escape."

"Why didn't we just continue on last night?" complained Harry.

"First, after Fred's litttle shunt did for the tyre we weren't going any further. Second, do try to acquire some social graces, Harry. Celebrity status only goes so far," explained George.

"I'm not a celebrity," argued Harry. It was George after all.

"More the need for proper etiquette, then. You can't just barge up late in the day looking for money. It is... an impostion," lectured George with his nose in the air.

"Who in Merlin's name are you?" demanded Ginny. "This has got to be an impostor."

"That is deeply wounding, dear sister. I'll have you know I've met the entire Wizengamot, and there's hardly a day that the highest levels of the Ministry do not call."

"You and Fred were brought up before the Wizengamot. That's hardly the same thing as meeting them socially. And Dad is a department head, but him calling to see if you'll come round for dinner hardly counts either."

"You could do with some better manners yourself," said George. "You're speaking out of turn."

"I am not."

"You are."

"Am not! Whose bloody turn do you think it should be?"

"Perhaps mine," said Hermione in her prefect voice. "It is an imposition, Harry. We should probably ask as early as we can."

"I think I'd wait until Fred and Verity return," said George. He nodded at the parked lorry, which was rocking slightly. Slightly, and rhythmically.

"Urgh..."

"Dibs on the front seat!" cried Ginny.

v - v - v - v - v

Delacour Manor was built in the sixteenth century, much along the same lines as the Palace of Versailles, though no where near as big. Two wings swept back from a central entrance, all worked stone and tall windows. It was, thought Harry, the grandest wizarding house he had ever seen. It was also right there in front of them, obviously not under a Fidelius or even protected by much in the way of warding.

The delegation to the manor was short Fred and Verity. They had emerged from the back of the lorry trying to look as if nothing had been going on. That was not something the young blond could manage. The first snide snort from Ron and Verity turned so crimson that Harry thought she would burst into flame. She had run off in mortification; Fred later discovered that she had sealed herself into the boot of the Citroën. He might still be trying to talk her out. She might still be trying to castrate him.

They reached the imposing carved, wooden double-doors of the manor house after a pause to examine the strange appearance of the apple tree. The tree was quite old, completely dead on one side, and had twisted metal sunk into its trunk and branches. The strangest thing, however, was the dead-white squirrel that peered down at them from the sickly, bleached canopy. It was the kind of thing that made one think of omens, though that was something Hermione dismissed. George noted the curious ring of healthy grass among the brown.

Before using the dangling bell-pull to alert the house, the group spent a moment trying to figure out what to say. Actually, it was a bit more like arguing about what would be said and by, as Hermione insisted, whom. This was, felt Harry, another example of, well, not bad planning, since they had reached their destination. It was more like... under-planned. A little more preparation, admitted Harry, could have been done; perhaps a little help from the Order could have been used. Harry knew, though, that there would be no way of getting a little help, especially when Mad-Eye was the one to plan. Harry reached over and absently pulled the cord, before realizing what he was doing. Three pure tone sang out, accompanied by a tinkling cascade that made one think of gay laughter. The gorgeous sound got everyone's attention, mostly because it was not supposed to have happened yet. "Er, sorry," said Harry to the staring faces.

The doors before them remained the same. That is, shut. The image carved in relief into the wood of the doors did stay quite the same. Two medieval knights, each holding a lance, changed ever so slightly. It was their eyes; it was easy to believe they were now looking at those desiring entry. George stepped to the front and rapped his knuckles on the forehead of one of the knights. "Come on, Sir Splinters, let us in." There was limit to how baleful a stare the flatish wooden eyes could manage, and it was quickly reached.

Madame Delacour answered the door with a disarming smile, which, for one of Veela extraction, could be literally true. She took a moment to survey her visitors, which settled the group as her cool gaze subtly suggested that a bit more decorum would be necessary.

Except for George. "(Good day, Mademoiselle. Is your mother here?)" he asked with a wink.

Madame Delacour appeared momentarily confused. "Oui, my mozzair eez 'ere. You are Molly's children, et Monsieur Potter, and?"

"Je m'appelle Hermione Granger, Madame Delacour," said Hermione, introducing herself. Harry noticed that she entwined her arm with Ron's as she spoke, and then found that Ginny had done the same to his.

"Ah, oui. Please, come in," invited Madame Delacour, leading them to the parlor.

v - v - v - v - v

Harry rubbed his shoulder for the tenth time. He was no healer, but it was possible that Ginny had pulled the aching arm from its socket. Still, he thought the visit had gone well, and said so.

"It was pathetic. You were pathetic," griped Ginny.

"Me?"

"Yeah, you were a complete git. 'I've been in the Prophet.' Honestly," complained Ron. He too was shaking some feeling back into his arm.

"Sod off! You claimed to be the odds-on favorite for Minister of Magic," returned Harry.

"You were both acting ridiculously in there," said Hermione. "I would have thought that being around Fleur and Gigi had given you some practice."

"I don't think practice helps. Weak-minded, you see," diagnosed George.

"Hah! Don't think we didn't see your face when you found out that Gigi wasn't there," said Ginny, rounding on George.

"Gigi wasn't there?" asked Harry.

"You are a pillock. I don't think you heard a bloody word unless the bloody 'Countess' said it." Ginny threw up her hands in exasperation. It might be time, thought Harry, to change the topic. Or dig out the inivisibility cloak.

"Er, nice that Madame Delacour gave us the week's Prophets," tried Harry.

"Yes. You acted like it was a load of galleons."

"It was a bit of a surprise that Gigi gets the Prophet to improve her English reading," said Hermione. "I mean, compared to Fleur she seemd a -"

"Hidden depths," said George absently as his attention was on the lorry.

"Oh ho! Listen to him!" said Ginny. "I thought she got it for the pictures of her hero."

"Sorry, what?" said George.

"She used to cut out pictures of Harry. Now she saves Weasley Wizarding Wheezes advertisements. Very twee, and she'll just die of embarrassment when she finds out we know," laughed Hermione.

"I think I'll go on to Albania with you," declared George.

"What?" blurted Harry in surprise. "How did -"

"You really have no idea what you said back there," said a disgusted Ginny.

"It's not all Harry's fault. The Countess was up to something; you could hear it in her voice," said Hermione. "If you could've have understood what Madame Delacour was saying..."

"Yeah, tha's right. It was a conspiracy!" claimed Ron, sensing a way out of the crup-house.

"Against Harry, perhaps. You have no excuse." Right back in.

"Conspiracy? You don't think they support -"

"Don't be daft Harry. It was probably instinct, because you're a bit of a celebrity."

"I'm not a celebrity."

"'I was the youngest Seeker in a century.' 'I was a Tri-Wizard champion.'" recited Ginny. "None of that fills the cauldron? Merlin!"

"What's in Albania?" asked George. "It's the wilds, magically."

"Don't you need to get back to the shop?" asked Ron.

"We left it in good hands - well, trusted hands... It probably won't burn to the ground; Fred hasn't manged it yet," replied the former beater. "Won't be the first time we've been off longer than expected. Anyway, I think Fred and his better half - wait, no, that'd be me - I think Fred and Verity won't be in a hurry to get back."

"You mean?"

"Might be celebrating something, yeah."

"Merlin, Mum will be over the moon," said Ginny. The implication brought a smile to her face, and Harry hoped the news might make her forget the visit. "Should we ask them, or wait for them to tell us?"

"I'd, er, wait," advised George, nodding toward the lorry. It was once more both stationary, and moving.

"Urghh."

v - v - v - v - v

"Severus," groaned the body used by Lord Voldemort's vital essence, which, though far stronger than the flesh that contained it, could not end the tremors that shook his wand arm. It was a disgusting display of weakness, and a dangerous one. The Dark Lord knew he was becoming too dependent on the potions, on the brewer, for comfort. Snape had gained much in the course of events following the his initial collapse. How long would it be before he tried for it all?

Perhaps long enough, thought Lord Voldemort while downing the fortifying elixirs, to rectify the current corporeal capacity. Snape's hand may be stayed by the knowledge that while Lord Voldemort could not be killed, the potion master could. But surely, thought the Dark Lord, Snape must know that if he struck now then the effect would be nearly the same. He could be neutralized for years. No, decades, if the proper precautions were taken. The problem, considered the Dark Lord as the potions soothed his quaking muscles and twitching nerves, was that it was not clear what motivated Snape. The former professor had the trust and prestige of Hogwarts behind him, but turned his back on it in a moment for the son of another man. Now that scion was taken, leaving Severus curiously unperturbed. He was either a loyal, cold-blooded servant living only for the greater glory of Lord Voldemort, or there was something more.

It was a matter to be explored later. That - would - be explored later. Fortune, thought the Dark Lord, a stranger to him for so long, had presented him with an opportunity too good to not exploit. The coming voyage could well be a decisive turning point. The question remained as to whether the potions master should accompany him or not. It might be wise to leave his most trusted minion to oversee the operation to clear the parasites in Britain. The magic would be his! That is, if that minion could be trusted.

v - v - v - v - v

Harry lay back, on a blanket on the ground, in Monsieur Chiennez's back garden. Only the brightest stars could be seen, the rest were washed out by the glow of Paris at night. The Chiennez's flat was too small, but the wizard couple had allowed Harry and the others to set up the tent in the yard. More correctly, realized Harry, the Chiennez's had allowed George and his companions to camp.

Fred and Verity, once evicted from their retreat in the boot of the Citroën, which Ginny referred to as the honeymoon suite, took their leave. George had done the evicting by using a bee-summoning spell, so Fred had not been in a sharing mood. His mood had, in fact, been just short of murderous. Ginny and Hermione's close scutiny of Verity left the young woman pink, in addition to slightly swollen by the bee-stings. The two girls declared that they could not detect any signs of matrimony. The couple did not enlighten them before leaving in the lorry. There was a gearbox in the lorry too, and it was not happy.

The Citroën had needed extensive repairs before they continued into Paris, owing to the paper bomb that Fred had left for George. George's denims had needed extensive repairs as well. The needed healing had to wait until Hermione conjured a privacy screen. George, in between jibes at Ron, had explained that the bombs were of Japanese import. Harry had wondered if the comments wise, given where Ron's wand was pointing. The twins were attempting a cheaper, and funnier, knock-off of the expensive product, without much success yet.

Paris was a wonder. They had wandered through it, taking in the sights. It was beautiful and busy and bewildering. Harry had to wonder if London would be like that also, if he could do a proper visit. His few forays into London had always been hurried and furtive, to get to Diagon Alley or the Ministry. The Dursley's, of course, had taken him only once, on the disasterous outing to the zoo.

There was a wizard bookshop in Paris, near, well, Hermione knew. The Pont Noof, or something. It was attached to the rear of a small muggle booksellers, the clerk of which paid absolutely no attention to the rather elderly owl that Harry and the others had followed as it led them to the back, fluttering from display to display. Hermione had bought a crumbling tome which cost nearly a third of the value of the sickles left in the Black family's vault. Ron had tried to buy one that translated as 'Dancing Without Drawers', but Hermione had taken it from him. The quidditch books, Harry had found, were all in French.

Once night began to fall, talk had turned to where to set up the tent. George had taken over then, asking for the papers from Philippe. He had paged through the thick report, needing two Ennervates just to keep him going, until he had found a page of addresses. They had set off in a zig-zagging course after that, owing to the antiquated map in the Citroën and Hermione's refusal to try the car down the occasional stairway.

They ended up on a street of quite normal-looking flats. The one they sought did not stand out as magical in any way, until they were shown the back garden, which was easily three times the width of the apartment while still being bounded by it.

Monsieur Chiennez was tall and thin; Harry judged him to be quite a bit older than Mr. Weasley. He was also down-right ugly, more so than any potential love-child of Crabbe and Goyle. Madame Chiennez was no picture either, with a face whose natural set was dour, but which nevertheless attempted a smile when faced with unexpected guests. The small out-building at the end of the garden was her's. It was a small workshop, where she did piece-work for the twins.

While the French wizard and witch had recognized Harry's name and scar, if not his face, it was clear that George was the honored guest. Monsieur Chiennez had cooked a brilliant meal for them. Both salmon and lamb had been served, with sauces one hardly noticed until there was no more and the full tragedy of such was realized. Wine had been served with the many courses, even for Ginny. Harry was stuffed, and a little dozy. Ron had had his fill also, and was now intent on being as close to Hermione as he could get. In case, suppossed Harry, that she had had too much wine. He wondered if they would try the car's boot. Hermione, for her part, was slitting the wrapping on a Prophet with her fingernail. Ginny, yawning, wandered over to join him on the blanket, laying her head on his stomach. Harry found that to be uncomfortable considering its current fullness, but he did not want the redhead to leave either. He would shift in a bit.

His opportunity came as quick as the wrapper came off, when Hermione suddenly blurted, "Merlin's nasty bits!" She flapped the newsprint straighter.

"What? Did the Cannons win?" asked Ron, putting his head next to hers to read the paper over her shoulder. Harry was not fooled at all, though. Ron had managed to manuever himself one head turn away from a snog.

"What's that?" asked Harry, raising himself to a sitting position and causing Ginny to shift to his lap, which was not so full of lamb.

"Nasty bits?" giggled Ginny.

"Bloody hell!" exclaimed Ron.

"Let us see it too," insisted Ginny, though she didn't move.

Hermione turned the Prophet around to show the front page, where three-inch print proclaimed 'They See Us!' Underneath was a smaller headline, 'Muggles Map Magic,' and under that was a dark blob with several lighter patches. Inset was another square, with more scattered patches. "Yesterday's Prophet."

It did not, thought Harry, seem alarming. "Erm, what this about?" he asked.

"Those are muggle maps, Harry. Muggle! The large one shows the location of Diagon Alley, Hogsmeade, and Hogwarts," explained Hermione in a single horrifed breath. "The small one is London, with the Ministry, St. Mungo's, even the part of King's Cross station where the Hogwarts Express departs shown."

"And all that got was a 'nasty bits'?" commented Ginny.

"Wait - I thought Hogwarts and Diagon Alley were - "

"Unplottable? They - are, - Harry, but that only works if the mapmaker has a brain that can be fooled," explained Hermione. "Unplottable doesn't work if the mapmaker doesn't have a mind." She passed the paper to Harry. He wondered about the Burrow, and the Fidelius.

"So, Ron did this?"

"Ginny, please. The article says that they used a, well, I think they mean an artificial neural net, to make the maps. Honestly, would it hurt to at least try to check the spellings? Officials from the muggle Minstry presented it, apparently as a warning."

"What's an artificial new-all net?"

"Neural net. It's, er, like a mechanical brain."

"A mechanical brain?" doubted Ron.

"More like an electrical brain."

"A brain with plugs? That's balmy. I don't believe it," declared Ron. Harry wondered at that; Ron had seen brains with tentacles before.

"You're not alone there," said Harry. "Thicknesse suspects a traitor. He claims that Scrimgeour did nothing about this for months."

"I can't see how it would work," said Ginny as she sat up. "Muggle Studies explained these, er, computators. They can only do what muggles write down in, er... some kind of code, right? The Unplottable spell should still work."

"Neural nets are meant to learn by themselves. The warding wouldn't effect them," replied Hermione. She leaned back against Ron. "It sounds fantastical. If it was a secret military experiment..."

"Bloody computers. They'll be the end of wizards yet," said George. He was just exiting the flat, rolling up an extremely thin, pink string as he went. Harry frowned, and looked for the other end. "I've seen Philippe take down three wizards with a mere twenty pages of Powered Points. If it wasn't for the restorative properties of brandy, I don't think our hosts would have survived."

"So it's true?" asked Ginny.

"When did Extendable Ears get so small?" asked Harry. The string he held was like floss.

"They didn't; you got bigger," replied George. "The Ministry thinks the map is real; Dad says that they're not sure they believe how it came about."

"So, what will the Ministry do?" asked Harry.

"Well, Scrimgeour was trying to stop the attacks on muggles, and hid this. I don't know what Thicknesse will do, but since this came out I'd guess that cooperating with the muggles is off the table."

v - v - v - v - v

Gabrielle stood, rake poised and breath held, over a large pile of manure. The fumes wavered in the air. Her watering eyes were trained on Poisseux, who sat on the top of a tent a good distance away from the quarantine stall. She was sure he was turned away from her, though he was hard to make out. Gabrielle waited and waited until she was forced to take as small a breath as life required. The contents of the pile were very... fresh. Finally, the light reflecting off of Poisseux's spellotape skin changed to red. He had turned, Pepi-Z held in his mouth. It was the signal! Gabrielle swung the rake, pitching some of the pile out of the stall.

"Merlin's Eier!" came the shout. Gabrielle reloaded and launched more of the stinking mass out. "Pforten der Hölle! _Protego!_" She was too far inside the stall to have seen who was coming, but she knew, of course. It was Stanislaw. Gabrielle had become quite tired of the looks she was getting from him; there was no way that the crushed brass tubing was her fault. The look he gave her right now was quite frightening.

Or would have been, had Soleil's great bulk not been just behind her. The Abaraxan colt was half in the stall and half out of it. Gabrielle smiled at the fuming wizard. "Eh, I am sorry?" Stanislaw took an angry step toward her; Soleil crashed a hoof to the floor of the stall and neighed, showing his teeth.

Somewhat disappointedly, Stanislaw turned to go. "Wie viele Liter Klebstoff würde er machen?" he muttered. Gabrielle did not answer because she did not know German, and it was probably rude in any case. She was not, in fact, sorry at all. Gabrielle had spent the night worrying if her little zombie pets would be safe as they got into position. She was so relieved that they had that the prank itself was secondary. She would write George about it, though, he -

Oh yes, remembered Gabrielle, there would be no more letters. The full moon had come and gone, and there was no owl. Even allowing an extra day, or two, to account for her sudden, forced relocation, there was nothing. Gabrielle wished that her friend Allie had not said anything; she could have kept her hopes up for longer. For all the good that would do! Gabrielle's worst fears were realized. George had seen her, seen her scrying, and was angry. Angry, and likely taken aback by the completely zinzin, completely stupid little girl invading his privacy. Gabrielle would have chanced a scrying attempt to see if it was true, but the hurried packing meant that she had managed to leave the ink behind. It was probably still in the place she had hid it from herself. She could not even apologize and beg his forgiveness. Gabrielle had no owl of her own, and not enough funds for an International Post owl even if she could find one. Gabrielle now wished that she had also purchased a zombie owl when she bought Poisseux. The damaged birds had been half off! She could probably give a very small message to Poisseux if she got desperate enough. Gabrielle was sure the stubborn little toad would keep at it until he accomplished his goal; if only she could wait that long. Or live that long.

Gabrielle sighed, the deeper breath bringing a fragant reminder of the current task. Soleil, sensing her mood, brought his head low to nuzzle her. His head, fully the length of her torso, shoved Gabrielle up against the wall, but she patted his nose in thanks anyway. It was a disloyal thought, but the huge colt was warm and soft and, well, alive; qualities that Poisseux and Pepi-Z did not have. Given how hard the two zombies had tried to cheer her up, it was a thought that made Gabrielle feel ashamed to have had. On the other hand, frowned Gabrielle, neither the former toad or the former puffskein nibbled her skirts, which Soleil was doing and which earned him a slap.

v - v - v - v - v

Gabrielle shifted the gray lumps in her bowl around. Some were meat, some had once been vegetable. The food really was awful. She did not see why the others ate so much of it. If it were not for the bread and cheese she snuck, using the apron from Mrs. Weasley, she would surely starve. No one mentioned the missing supplies, and she wondered if anyone had even noticed. She did try to be careful, but cheese was either there or not. Gabrielle had herself noticed that two big bottles of the Abraxan's special whiskey had gone missing. She, needing no reason, suspected Stanislaw. She had not said anything to Professor Festeller, though, because what did it matter anyway?

The evening meals were served in the professor's tent, and he would lecture or make announcements then. Most of the other witches and wizards in the camp, no longer in school and not required to be there, appeared enthusiastic. The expedition members sat at two long tables, and Gabrielle sat at whichever one Stanislaw was not seated at. Her place was at the far end of the table, furthest from where the professor held forth. The seats immediately next to her were usually empty, or would empty. Time with an Abraxan tended to linger, as it were, and Gabrielle hoped it was only on Maman's special outfits.

The professor, who was fully recovered from - his - accident, was becoming excited. One could tell because he spoke more and more quickly about lesser and lesser minutiae. That was the only challenge to his class: being able to keep up and pick out what would be on the exam. The Accu-Scribe quill was her savior there. Professor Festeller was announcing the expedition's departure, and describing the destination's history as picked out by broken shards. Gabrielle was not really listening. She already knew that they would be leaving because Professor Elevagre had returned with his harness, which Gabrielle did not plan to use. That was because the harness was to be fitted on her instead of Soleil, and it was ridiculous that she would be tied to the Abraxan. She had to admit, though, that he had put quite a lot of effort into it. The web of leather straps reminded her of the impractical undergarments in Monsieur Lunky's shop.

Gabrielle sighed and felt her appetite leave her. Not, groused a second thought, that the food had helped. Those were two more memories of George. He had sent her the authentic Accu-Scribe, and he had taken her to the leather-worker's shop to get her the beautiful dragon-hide gloves. Was it really over already? Gabrielle knew she had to come up with a way to see him, or send him a message, to apologize, if not win him back.

"Hey, you're Gabby? Delacour, right? I went to school with Fleur. I'm Abby," said a tall witch with long dark hair. The young woman's face had surprisingly angular features, almost rough, topped with very dark eybrows. She was oddly attractive, but her manners, thought Gabrielle, were not. "You're kind of mopey. Are you homesick?"

"It is Gabrielle," corrected Gabrielle a little sharply. She recognized this Abby. The witch had not given up on the Gleason thingies, and spent a lot of time trying to rebuild one, whatever it was, from the mangled bits of the others. Which was not at all Gabrielle's fault. Gabrielle felt a breeze on her face, though the tent's opening was closed. It implied that she smelled, which she did not like whether it was true or not. "I am fine."

"I just thought I would ask. You don't say much, and there were supposed to be other students, but you're all alone," explained the witch gently.

Gabrielle was going to say that she talked all the time, but perhaps Soleil would not count. She had not felt alone until she had realized there would be no more letters from George. And that made her feel bad about her quick retort before. "Eh, people call me Gigi," said Gabrielle, though it pained her some to do so. "I am fine, really." Except for the heart-ache, added a theatrical second thought.

"Gigi? Really? I'd think I'd prefer Gabby," said Abby. "So... We're heading for Albania tomorrow. That's exciting, right?"

Why, Gabrielle wanted to ask. Instead, she tried to smile and said, "Yes, I, eh..."

"You're going to ride that Abraxan the whole way?" Gabrielle nodded in confirmation. She suspected that Abby could carry both sides of the conversation. Abby continued, "I was too afraid to even visit them when I was at Beauxbatons."

Gabrielle shrugged her shoulders. "I help Professor Elevagre with them."

Professor Elevagre was one of Abby's favorites, for flying, and so was Festeller, of course. While the dark-haired witch reviewed the teaching staff, Gabrielle reviewed a more intriguing idea. She did not have to follow the expedition! Soleil was happy to follow her pointing. If she could find out where she was and if she could, eh, borrow a map, she could fly home to Delacour Manor, get the ink, and see for herself how George - wait, no. That would be stupid. The ink, from Fred, accused a second thought, had got her into trouble in the first place. But this couldn't be the end. They had, after all, shared a perfect moment, and he does write. Did write. Gabrielle would, if she took the chance, be able to read his mood, and would also be able to get an owl. Maman would be suspicious, though, and there was no way to hide Soleil. If she had time to plan she could -

"Hello-o-o?" said Abby.

"I am sorry," apologized Gabrielle.

"Come on, cheer up. The dig will be so interesting! That will keep your mind off of your family and friends," tried Abby. Gabrielle barely resisted the temptation to roll her eyes. Could Soleil fly her to Britain, to the Burrow?

A/N:  
Please take the time to add a review, or point out typos.


	11. Err Soleil

Chapter Eleven - Err Soleil

Beaufort Bootbotham, long resigned to the shorter Bootsey, stood with his hands on his hips looking toward the sea. At least that is what he appeared to be doing to those near him. Actually, he was, in fact, staring up at the monumental white tower that seemed to erupt from the top of the chalk cliff itself, something which the muggles did not notice. "Now there's a thing," he said to no one in particular.

Bootsey was dressed in short gray trousers that were a bit too tight, a white linen shirt, and a plaid sweater vest. On his feet were what looked like green wellies; on his head was a handkerchief, tied at the corners. He was a wizard, an auror as well, and this was an approved disguise finely calculated to keep the muggles at a wary distance. Which it mostly did.

"Need some help there, mate?" asked a swarthy man carrying a large black satchel. The material of the bag strained at the handles; whatever was inside was heavy. Bootsey guessed that the contents were those weird, heavy iron implements that muggles needed. There was a lot of repair work going on in the nearby town of Ravenscar, but no such crude tools had put up the tower the man failed to notice.

In any case, conversation with the muggles was best avoided. Bootsey selected one of the approved Ministry phrases, the one that had yet to fail. "I've come to join the morris dancers, squire. D'ya know where they are?"

Success, thought Bootsey, as the man muttered his apologies and hurried off. Now it was time to see about the gleaming white edifice ahead of him. Once he was beyond the buildings and remains of buildings, he would add a charm to make sure he could work in peace. His assignment was to track down this Meekum fellow, and find out why the bleeding idiot had robbed a muggle bank.

Actually, Bootsey could guess why. Muggle lager was piss-water, but they did know their way around spirits. The exchange rate the goblins gave was pure shite, and - there were the muggle banks, now with convenient holes in their walls that led directly to the vaults. It was simply a temptation some could not resist. Not that that would earn the miscreant much sympathy, least not with the current crisis.

The auror came to a sudden stop as he reached the barrier ward. He had expected as much, though he had also expected to detect it before his face did. Meekum's chance for leniency had just evaporated. Bootsey raised his wand and set to work.

Ten minutes of determined prodding later, Bootsey's blood ran cold. That old sod Mad-Eye had told him about wards like this. The looming tower was now looking decidedly ominous. The ward was a Death-Eater ward, keyed to the Dark Mark. He could not get through, and he would not go through in any case without a lot of help.

Still, better not to go back with a cold wand. Reconnoitering would be valuable. Perhaps, hoped Bootsey, he could pick off a straggler for some pointed questions, and get a little of his own back for his stinging nose. He checked his disillusion and began to skirt the magical boundary.

It was as he picked his way along the rocky base of the cliff facing the sea, reached by conjuring an enormous feather to ride, that Bootsey felt eyes upon him. This was disturbing for two reasons. First, he had always gotten high marks for his disillusion in the certification trials. Certainly no muggle would see him. Second, as far as he could sense, there was no one else among the jumbled rocks. Which meant his probable foe was very good, and likely had the drop on him. There was a twinge of regret for the auror bravado that made him eschew the Weasley Shield-Wear. He hurried for the shelter of a large boulder.

No curses flew past, so Bootsey rooted through a surprisingly cavernous pocket for his Thurlow mini-lens. No auror bravado for this; just a smart tool. It was not a patch on the big ones for sensitivity, of course, but it would show nearby magical traces if they were strong enough. It would give away his adversary, and it did, except it was not who, or even what, was expected. The source of the shimmering light, as seen through the optics, was what looked like a bit of scrap metal wedged in the rocks. A bit of scrap metal, with a face.

It was a bronze sculpture of a clown, arms and legs deeply embedded in the surrounding rock, and it was obviously watching him. The cheek of it, leaving it out here where any muggle could find it. This sort of carelessness was happening all too frequently these days, thought Bootsey. He decided to take care of it right now; a bit of initiative shown for the report later. One concentrated Reducto, he decided, would break the magic. The metal figure soundlessly mouthed at him. Run, fool? More ruddy cheek! The auror put his wand to the metal torso and, with a bright flash, tore a hole in the sculpture's chest. The unexpected incandescence from the damaged area startled and blinded him, and he instinctively ducked low.

Which was why he was able to watch the flash of green and hear the rushing sound as the Unforgiveable sailed over. Bootsey stared in shock at the man now standing only feet away. It was Meekum, the bastard. "Meekum!" exclaimed Bootsey. "You bloody idiot! You could have killed me!"

"And I shall," smiled the Dark Lord cruelly. The chalk under the wrong-footed Bootsey liquidfied, and the auror sank in.

Desperately, Bootsey struggled in the hardening muck to turn. Apparition meant distance, and distance meant time. Time he needed to reassess the situation. But it was already too late, his attempt only partially succeeded. He had splinched; his legs were locked in the now solid chalk, his torso was a few yards away, and his head and shoulders were a few yards further than that. The sensation of having a whole, functioning body while not being able to know what the other parts did was not pleasant, and somewhat itchy. The only advantage to the current situation, thought Bootsey grimly, was that the Ministry would detect it and at least be able to retrieve his body. He launched a bolt of lightning from his wand, which was damned difficult to do when one was only a head and some arms. Meekum turned it aside with barely a movement of his wand. At least the pasty bastard is breathing hard, thought the doomed auror.

"_Fiendfyre_," incanted Lord Voldemort. The fire spilled from the wand he held, onto the trapped auror's legs. The agonized shrieks invigorated the Dark Lord. Why, he could almost feel the magic returning to him that killing this parasite freed up. At the same time, the lack of capacity in the current corporeal form disgusted him. The Killing Curse had nearly dropped him to his knees. There was a time when he could easily do three, even four a day. A few waves of his wand was all that was needed to guide the leaping flames to the writhing torso. Lord Voldemort then examined the pierced bronze sculpture. It was inanimate, and Dumbledore had escaped. It was not a concern, the old fool was simply trapped back in the powerlessness of death. Clearly, however, ordinary metal was not going to be suitable for his purposes.

v - v - v - v - v

"Snape," called Lord Voldemort as he landed at the window.

"My Lord," replied Snape deferentially. He set the slivers of bat heart aside, and turned. The Dark Lord was nearly breathless. That probably explained the screams.

"We leave immediately. Bring that which is required for a transfer." Orders given, the Dark Lord stepped into the air and disappeared.

The potions master turned back to the bat hearts. It was a terrible waste of ingredients. Once cut with the dark iron, they would not last, and there was no time to complete the brewing. It was irksome, but not worth his life to defy the Dark Lord. The expectation of a transfer was a surprise, with the Dark Lord's plans becoming more opaque as of late. The former professor began loading the vials of potions that kept his master's husk alive. Snape knew that his current postion was little more than a nursemaid, and that if the Dark Lord found a favorable host his position would erode. Why was Potter taking so long? What was the dunderhead doing?

v - v - v - v - v

It was colder than Gabrielle had expected, flying at this altitude. It was certainly colder than a skirt would suffice for. If she caught the Grippe, it would be Maman's fault. And Professor Elevagre's, since he had returned with a Ministry clerk, who signed the quarantine papers and clucked his tongue at the stall's condition. Elevagre stayed long enough to see that she was strapped into his harness. Since two of the straps went around her legs, Gabrielle knew she really should have changed - the straps kept riding up, taking her skirt along.

Gabrielle had never been this high before. It was hard to gain altitude with a broom - with the school's brooms, that is. In the darkness, all she could make out of the world below were the lights of muggle cities and towns. That was only possible when she shimmied up past Soleil's hithers. Otherwise, his wings and broad back blocked the view. Of course, it was warmer there, between his wings, right over the powerful muscles that beat the wings, but she could not stay snuggled against the colt's fur. She had to watch for the green sparks, and to remind Soleil to follow them. Gabrielle suspected that the Abraxan knew to do that without prompting, but was peeved that she had spent some of the day helping Abby.

Gabrielle knew that she had not been much help to the witch, and that Abby had only asked because she thought that Gabrielle was lonely. Still, it was good to have someone to talk with. Really talk with - Poisseux, Pepi-Z, and Soleil almost always just agreed with her. Abby did most of the speaking, and Gabrielle did not share her fascination with the Gleason apparatus, but it was less boring than complaining to Soleil about Festeller and Stanislaw. Gabrielle learned, for instance, that she was not in southern France, but in southern Italy. She pretended to have misspoken when Abby corrected her, regretting not listening to Festeller at least a little. Gabrielle just wished her finger had not got stuck in one of the brass tubes; it made Abby laugh at her.

The Gleason apparatus was a device that, at least for a working one, was able to analyze magical traces. It could tell how long ago magic was done, what kind of magic it had been, and even help pin down the core of the wand used. A working apparatus would save a lot of excavation of potential sites. Abby's repaired attempt managed a strange buzzing if a wand was stuck into a sensing tube directly. The dark-haired witch was happy with that result. Prior to that, she could not even be sure if it were on or not.

Gabrielle spotted the green flash well to the right of Soleil's current direction of flight. He did know - she had felt him turn just enough so that he was not too far off-course. Soleil was just spoiled. Gabrielle began the climb up his neck. The harness was really just in the way. She might, a second thought posited, fall because of it. When Gabrielle was able to reach them, she scratched Soleil's ears. There was something about them that always made them look itchy. "I saw the sparks, Soleil. Over in that direction." Gabrielle pointed, then wondered if the animal could even see her arm in the gloom. Monique, remembered Gabrielle, always said that she was too pale and practically glowed in moonlight, which could be cured by getting more sun. Gabrielle decided to think about that when she was nestled in the warmth of the colt's back, out of the cold winds.

v - v - v - v - v

Gabrielle jerked awake, and rolled hastily to her hands and knees. She had fallen asleep while looking at the stars, and if Soleil really did not know to follow the sparks then they would be hopelessly lost. That is, if the rest of the expedition did not somehow notice that the giany flying horse was no longer behind them. Gabrielle's teeth were set to chattering when she started up past the Abraxan's shoulders. The air was colder and damper, and smelled of the sea. The wind went right through her as she scanned the darkness ahead. Gabrielle realized that they were now over water; everything below was black, and she could see muggle lights marking a shoreline. What she did not see were sparks. At least not yet. There was no reason to panic. The cold was really biting now, but she straddled Soleil's powerful neck and struggled higher. Getting lost would mean that she could go home, but it also meant that she couldn't go home. How would she protect Soleil, hide him, from the muggles? There was no reason to panic though. Gabrielle kept her head turning, watching in every direction for the telltale signal. The sparkling trail would show for quite a long way at night. Not so much once dawn came, but there was no reason to panic.

When the motes of bright green finally appeared, they were dead ahead. Further away than before, but very clear. "The-there it i-is!" shouted Gabrielle through her chattering teeth, giddy with relief. There was no reason to panic. She leaned out excitedly to point them out to Soleil, over-balanced, her cold limbs not responding, and slipped from his neck with a cry.

It was a short drop. The tether was only about eight meters long, and her wail ended in a grunt as the leather arrested her fall. Gabrielle dangled and spun in the cold, rushing air just under the Abraxan's huge front hooves.

Soleil's reaction was sudden and violent. He tucked his head down and twisted in a tight circle, trying to grab the tether in hs mouth. Although he meant well, the spinning flight whirled Gabrielle around on the other end of the leather rope. That was bad, but what was worse was the definite downward feeling. She was pretty sure having the Abraxan accidentally bite through the safety line would not be good either. That was now three reasons to panic.

"N-no Sol-leil! S-stop!" shouted Gabrielle as she twisted and spun in the buffeting air currents. Not exactly stop, corrected a second thought. Stop meant drop. Stop flying in circles was what was meant, continued the possibly delirious thought. In the panic, time was beginning to slow for Gabrielle, so she had another thought, which was that she really ought to have told Soleil not to bite the tether. Then there was a thought that she was very glad that her professor had made her wear the harness, but she would never tell him. He might wonder what kind of idiot falls off such a huge creature. Perhaps she could get him more bandages, something he could really use. Were those sparks? One would think, added an annoyed thought, that the others might notice that something was at least slightly wrong. Sparks. "Sp-sparks, Soleil!"

It was not much of a command, but it seemed to make more sense to the Abraxan than her first. Soleil wheeled out of his tight spiral, and his great wings started reaching for altitude. Gabrielle had no wings of her own, so when her mount changed direction, she did not. She slammed into the colt with sufficient for to leave her breathless, but not, for once, to cause the sickening cracking noises that would occasion a dose of Skele-Gro. Gabrielle's hand found part of the tack, and she clung to there to rest before trying to climb.

And Gabrielle could climb, easier than she herself would have guessed. Moving the metric ton had done for her arms what the metal over-shoes had done for her legs. It was still not easy, and Soleil's concern, and thus veering course, did not make it any less difficult. She smiled reassuringly, if falsely, for him, but it was probably too dark for that to help. Gabrielle struggled onto the animal's back and laid face down in the wonderful warmth. Never mind the smell. She would wear two pairs of denims and three blouses when next she had to fly. It was so cold up above the sea. Glad for the heat bringing her back, Gabrielle dug her fingers into Soleil's thick coat, and started scratching in gratitude.

v - v - v - v - v

Harry stared intently at the apples. There were advantages to travelling with George, and a few drawbacks. The apple on the right definitely looked dodgy, at least if he looked at it with a bit of a squint. That one he would leave for Ron. Harry took the one placed innocently, yet conspicuously, to the fore. It had some smudgy patches on it, but nothing that looked too unusual.

"How is it that you can tell which apple to take, or not to take, but are still completely pants at non-verbal casting?" asked George from the comfort of the chair he had transfigured from the firewood. Harry had thought him dozing.

"I'm not. Not totally," replied Harry defensively. They sat around a small table that was set up outside the tent, which was pitched near the barn on the small farm. It looked like an ordinary farm, until one got too close to what was definitely - not - broccoli. The wizard who owned the land was another supplier for the twins.

"You're worse than Ron, you know. Is that why you skived off your last year?"

"No. I needed, uh, time for, erm, self-directed independent studies," replied Harry. There was also the likely controversy over his blood-soaked picture in the Prophet if he was officially enrolled. He had gone through the whole 'dangerously unstable' thing before. Once was enough.

"Hermione's got you trained well, I see. This - what was it? - self-inflicted independent skiving - were you learning to speak Albanian, by any chance?" asked George. "Might be a handy talent. Or was it something about the reason for this trip?"

Harry took a bite of the apple to think. Dumbledore had told no one else of the horcrux. Harry himself had only told Hermione, Ron, and Ginny. George was in the Order, and a Weasley, but a secret shared was a secret lost. Still, decided Harry, George could do a lot to help. "There's someting Voldemort needs there, something that, erm, gives him his power."

George nodded and gave out a low whistle. "So it'll be hidden then. Possibly guarded?"

"No, I don't think it will be." None of the other horcrux had been guarded, except for inferi, since Riddle would not have trusted anybody. They had not been hidden either, really, if you only knew where to look. "There'll be curses, though." Thinking of that made Harry wish he had spent more time with Bill Weasley.

"Oh obviously. You've got to have curses," said George. He broke into a grin as Harry took another bite of his apple, which was quickly spat out. "Oy! Mind those manners!" The Boy-Who-Lived turned red, began sweating, and fanned his tongue which he stuck out.

Harry pulled out his wand, seeking relief. But it was useless, he could not think of a spell to cast, and could not feel his tongue to cast it anyway. George was right, thought Harry. He was pants at non-verbal casting.

"It doesn't always have to be magic. Concentrated Bhut Jolokia peppers, courtesy of one Krishna, or the other," explained George. "Need a bit of help there? Milk's the thing." He drew his wand and produced a gush of milk like a firehose, which blasted the suffering Harry into the wall of the barn.

Harry righted himself and found his glasses. George was rolling on the ground, finding it all profoundly funny. Harry did not say anything, though. The mouthful of milk he had quenched the pepper's burn. He crawled his way back to his wand, and George picked himself off the grass. A couple of swallows, thought Harry, and I'll return the favor.

"Uh oh. There's that Pot-temperament we all know," said George. "Come on, it's all in fun. Hey - I'll tell you a trick to non-verbal casting, how about that?"

"No, I get plenty of that in Hermione's drills. _Per-_" began Harry.

"_Protego!" _called George. Harry's bludgeoning spell was turned aside. Harry went to disarm the ex-beater, but found he had no voice. He really was pants at this, and if he ever had to go up against a real opponent without the element of surprise... Well, he had better - Pants, thought Harry. There was one spell that worked: _Levicorpus!_

George was dragged into the air by his ankle, like he was attached to an invisible rope. He somersaulted to the ground a moment later having cancelled the spell. "That's better. There's hope for you yet," grinned George. A short wand movement caused Harry's wand to fly from his hand. "But you're still a bit of a thin streak. Do, please, pay attention, as I shall now divulge the secret of, nay, the very heart of magic, as revealed to Fred and I by dint of our own long years of devoted study. Oy! I can see that."

Harry had rolled his eyes. The last secret to the twins' success was a map they had found with little more than a lucky dip. On the other hand, Fred and George had passed that on to him, and it had been really useful. The question was whether to go for his wand, or to hear George out.

"That's more like it. You may want to practice your look of wonder once this vital secret is revealed. No, that looks more confused than awed. Never mind, I'll do a glamour when the time comes. And never mind your wand for now.

"Listen, Harry. Do you think there's a spell for that geyser of milk? Oh, sorry. _Finite._"

"Erm, yes?"

"'Course there is, somewhere, probably. I wouldn't know, I didn't use it," said George.

"Then how did you?"

"Where is the magic, Harry?"

"What?"

"Where does the magic come from?" repeated George.

"Well, I - Hang on, I know this one. There was this bloke, yeah, Barthelemy, right? He thought -"

"Set ol' Barty aside for now. Windy old baggage. Where's the magic? The words, the wand, or the wizard?" quizzed George.

This, thought Harry, was beginning to sound philosophical again. "The wizard, I suppose," answered Harry.

"Right you are, chum. The wand's a stick to a muggle; the incantation mostly gibberish. The wizard casts the spell. So, why the wand?"

Harry knew this one. "It focuses the magic of the spell and helps control it."

"Yeah, basic stuff that. Now, why the incantation?"

"It, um, it... I - I don't know," replied Harry. Spells always had an incantation, thought Harry. Didn't they? But it was wands and wizards that had histories, that were studied. "I mean, how else would you know what spell you were doing?"

"Nearly there. Just saying the words and waving your wand won't make a spell work. You've got to know what is supposed to happen, be able to see how it will happen, before anything will. Happen, that is. You have to have seen the spell, or know the effect, to have any chance of it working. Still on the snitch? Good. The wand focuses the strength of the magic; the incantation focuses your intent." George looked at Harry very much the way Hermione would when she suspected he was not paying attention.

"I see," said Harry, though he wished he could instead see where this was going, or where his wand had gotten to.

"Now here's the thing: if you aren't going to say the incantation aloud, then it doesn't matter which one you use," proclaimed George. He gave Harry an expectant look. "I wouldn't call that wonder. Maybe dumbfounded, bordering on dumb."

"Erm, that was it, was it?"

"Merlin, standards for Chosen Ones really have dropped off, haven't they? Look, Fred and I figure casting has three parts. First you imagine the effect you want, then you use a wand movement to build up potential, and finally you release the magic with the incantation. For non-verbals, just pick the incantation for what would be your best spell. Or whatever feels right - it's all about the moment of release."

Definitely a load of philosophy, decided Harry. "Oh well, that's smashing. Great tip, really, er, useful."

"Oh shut up, you git," snapped George. He flicked his wand, and sent the missing holly wand back towards Harry. Harry found his arms invisibly restrained, and the wand hit him in the forehead. "Now think of a spell you've only seen; imagine how it would happen, how it would look. Close you eyes and see it happening in your head. Then give it a try with your favorite incantation."

Harry sighed. He decided to give it a go, at least once. A faked second try would give him the element of surprise. Harry closed his eyes, and recalled the swirl of fire that Dumbledore had conjured to drive off the inferi. He imagined the wall of flames trailing his wand, he imagined he could feel the heat. Harry twirled his wand above his head, and thought, "Expelliarmus."

Harry opened his eyes at George's shouted expletive. The older wizard was covered in soot and still smoldering from the remains of his eyebrows. It took a moment for Harry to realize the spell had apparently worked. "It worked?" he asked, just to be sure.

"Do you think?" asked George, patting his face and hair. "What was that?"

"Er, a spell Professor Dumbledore used when the - er, while I was helping him," said Harry, still a little stunned.

"Now how about the same, only with water?" suggested George.

"Water?"

"Yes. The camp is on fire," added George.

Harry closed his eyes and imagined a wall of water spiraling out from him. He tried to feel the wetness, like when he plunged into Hogwarts lake, and -

"Any time you're ready," encouraged George. Harry, the images in his mind dispelled, refocused. "The tent's caught now," noted George.

"Do you mind?" complained Harry. "It's hard to concentrate with you interrupting."

"Is it now? Suppose I was tossing curses your way? Am I supposed to hang about while you meditate?" teased George. "You need to get a bit of yourself into the Tower of your Mind."

"The what?" asked Harry. George's words were strangely familiar - he had come across the same sort of allusion somewhere else, he was sure of it. It was, it was... in the margins of Snape's book!"

"Never mind that for now. I'll put out the barn; you save the tent and grass."

v - v - v - v - v

The flight lasted until just before dawn. It was not as interesting after Gabrielle had warmed back up. This was because Soleil would flinch and raise his neck to prevent her from climbing up. Which was, thought Gabrielle, completely ridiculous. She had already slipped from the animal before without injury, and she was still wearing the tether. Soleil, judged Gabrielle, was acting like Aunt Laurel when it came to knives. The Abraxan also apparently no longer needed her help following the rest of the expedition. In fact, he was following so much more closely that Gabrielle could see, in the predawn light, the repeated and nervous head-turning of the rather concerned wizard on the broom.

The destination was a forlorn outcropping of rock, set among other outcroppings which looked pretty much the same, except that the scrubby trees that interspersed the dark rock elsewhere did not intrude here. From the air it looked like a roughly circular scar in the brush, as if there had been a very precise fire. Gabrielle did not like the look of the place. Near the edge of the clearing was - a house. A kind of house, supposed Gabrielle, or a cottage, possibly a cabin. It was very small, made from hewn logs, and it had a thatched roof. The little building seemed to Gabrielle not to be part of the landscape, as if it were temporary.

The mystery of the dwelling would have to wait though. Soleil had needs, and those had to be addressed. First. An unhappy Abraxan was not very likely to bottle up that emotion and sulk. Gabrielle did not want to be blamed for any more broken instruments. Which had not been her fault in the first place.

Gabrielle noticed the problem after swinging down from her perch between Soleil's wings. She was attached to Soleil by the tether, the tether was attached to her by the harness, and the harness was buckled onto Gabrielle by some sort of fastening that she could not see, as it was on her back. Professor Elevagre had overlooked a very important flaw in his design - Gabrielle could not get out of the harness by herself. Since she was at most only eight meters from Soleil, and most of the others in camp would not come within twenty meters of the Abraxan even when he was in the quarantine stall, this was a real dilemma.

The continued connection did not prevent Gabrielle from feeding Soleil, or from getting him water. It just meant that he went where she went and, mostly, she went where he went. She could not lead an Abraxan; they either followed or did not. Soleil free to wander, except for what small resistance dragging Gabrielle provided, greatly delayed setting up the new camp. It was very embarrassing, especially when she was pulled off her feet. The winged horse was very curious about the crated items, and did not seem to care when Gabrielle pointed out that they did not contain his whiskey. She wondered if he was looking for another Gleason apparatus to stomp.

Gabrielle saw her chance during one of the few times she was able to be the one to choose the direction. She spied Abby hiding on the other side of a boulder, and angled toward her. "Abby! Could you, eh, undo this stupid harness?"

"Oh, um, sure, Gigi," replied Abby, not moving from the protection of the rock. "Turn around so I can see it." Gabrielle moved closer before complying. Abby, she noticed, cringed as she drew nearer. Probably the smell. "Oh Merlin. That's fine, right there."

Gabrielle wondered how Abby would be able to reach, but then realized the she was being stupid. Abby was a grown witch, and she would of course use her wand. Soleil started snorting.

"The back is tied, laced, and buckled!" reported Abby. "This won't be so quick." Gabrielle felt the tugs as her new friend began working. Soleil was approaching, walking stiffly with his ears back and his wings spread. Gabrielle recognized this behavior, but found it a little surprising since there were no other Abraxans around. The colt jumped forward, slamming his front hooves hard onto the ground. Gabrielle looked on with more bewilderment than fear; what was he up to? Behind her, Abby's short shriek ended in a bang of disapparation. Gabrielle turned at the noise, then found herself jerked into the air as Soleil lifted her by the harness.

"Soleil!" whined Gabrielle. "This is not the time for being silly." She twisted in the air as the animal turned. She wondered if he was planning on finding some new crates to investigate.

"Dummes kind! Release the end tied to the beast first," shouted a familiar adversary. "Then use the net," added Stanislaw.

Hmmph, thought Gabrielle. As if he knew anything about taking care of Abraxans.

v - v - v - v - v

The tents were put up quickly once Soleil was settled. Gabrielle had detached the other end of the tether, once the colt had put her down. It had taken quite a bit of pleading to convince the animal to do so, and she had had to resort to pretending to cry. That was ridiculous, and really pathetic if she thought about it, but Soleil was easier to handle when he could no longer drag her along to where he wanted to be. A double measure of the whiskey helped as well; afterward he was content to stay in the area that Gabrielle had cordoned off with the netting. At least, he was content if she stayed near. It was going to be a very boring month, sighed Gabrielle, if she had to stay within eye sight of Soleil.

There were advantages, though. Gabrielle did not have to help in setting up the camp, at all. Stanislaw and his minions put up her tent, and reversed the charm that had made Soleil's new stall portable. The shelter was much more the proper size, but, in Gabrielle's opinion, it was way too close to her tent. A plot by Stanislaw, no doubt. Gabrielle noticed that the camp was spread along the edge of the clearing, but not evenly. Her tent, Soleil's stall, and the little cottage were definitely on the other side of things. Gabrielle blamed this on Stanislaw as well. She would have to ask Professor Festeller to have her tent moved. That is, when that Stanislaw was not lurking nearby to grouse about galleons.

An opportunity for the request came very quickly. Abby had been sent with the Professor's summons. The young witch finished helping Gabrielle from the harness; Gabrielle had to walk out to her, since Abby was keeping well back from where Soleil relaxed in the bigger stall. This was probably because no stall was home without it getting a few kicks.

Gabrielle entered Festeller's tent on her own, wishing she had had a chance to wash up after spending a night on an Abraxan. The professor might not allow her to move if she smelled too much of Soleil. One got used to the odor, though. Gabrielle did not think the professor was old enough to win over with a smile. At least, not from her.

"Ah, Mademoiselle Delacour, yes, thank you for coming so quickly," said Festeller. On the long table were maps, scrolls, and more bits of curled brass that Gabrielle now recognized were pieces of an Apparatus. This might not, she considered, be the time to make her demand. Stanislaw was not hovering inside, but she and the professor were not alone. An old woman stood to the side with an air of grudging tolerance for those around her, holding a ladle. She was thickly built, slightly stooped, and had thick grey hair gathered into a bun. Her face was dominated by a hooked nose of considerable size, and she wore a plain dress of dull red and an apron. The crone looked, to Gabrielle, like every caricature of an old peasant woman she had ever seen. There is still time to run, noted a second thought. "This is Nona," continued Festeller.

Since he stopped at that Gabrielle felt she had to say something. "Eh, hello. I am, eh, eh, pleased to meet you." Nona had turned her dark eyes to Gabrielle, and it had unsettled her. Gabrielle added a curtsey, because that was often approved of by older people.

"Nona will run the camp. She does not, unfortunately, yes, speak French," explained the Professor. Still time to escape, warned a desperate thought. "She will look after you, yes. You will help her in her tasks." Too late.

While some part of Gabrielle heard Festeller and understood what was happening, the rest of her was too focused on the sharp, disapproving eyes of the old woman. Gabrielle could not look away and, even as her professor continued on about someone named Anthony, she found herself remembering and recalling past events. The day in her Papa's office, when the cursed drawer had sheared off her hand; the concerned look on Madame Chouisse's face as she gathered Gabrielle's broken body from her wall and apparated to the hospital; the relief on Gaston's face when she had responded after the strange landscapes had faded; the smell of a snowy Christmas day with hot chocolate; the swing of the scythe as she harvested the grain. Gabrielle's attention snapped back to the present, and Nona. The look on the old woman's face was much less hard, almost pleased in a dour sort of way. That was something Gabrielle found more disturbing than the earlier scorn. Festeller had stopped speaking, and was looking at Gabrielle expectantly. "Eh, yes?" she tried. No, recommended a second thought, but too late.

"Good, yes. Good. The students - you - will be allowed a visit, yes, to the dig each day. Of course, when you are needed, yes, we will send for you," described Festeller. Then he smiled, as if everything had gone as expected. Gabrielle, feeling that she had missed something, stood there. "You can go with Nona. You are her charge, yes, now," he added.

"What?" asked Gabrielle. That did not sound like just helping at all. And, thought Gabrielle, she had to take care of Soleil too. She was going to explain exactly how much work that was - a metric ton - when an iron grip on her arm pulled her away. "Hey!"

"Ardhur pak fëmijë. Unë kam punë për ju."


	12. I Cook, I Clean, and Now?

Chapter Twelve - I Cook, I Clean, and Now?

The trouble with Nona, fumed Gabrielle, was that she did not speak French, or even English. She seemed to understand what Gabrielle was saying, especially if Gabrielle was facing the crone, but otherwise Nona communicated by rapping Gabrielle in the head with the ladle. It was not as if there was any kind of code! A thump on her head could mean yes, no, or, most likely, hurry up. How was that communication? Two days had passed already, and while Gabrielle had tried a few words of Albanian, or whatever it was Nona spoke, the old woman had not even bothered with her name.

Gabrielle was cutting carrots with a knife that would give Aunt Laurel nightmares. Nona had assigned the task in her usual way: she whacked Gabrielle with the ladle, demonstrated what she wanted, and then tapped Gabrielle again. It was completely unnecessary, since Gabrielle was already being made to help. A second thought reasonably pointed out that the ladle did not actually hurt, that the noise it made was out of proportion with its impact. Still, thought Gabrielle, it was not the proper way to treat someone who was twelve years old.

Of course, remembered Gabrielle, she got off lightly compared to that Anthony. Nona had bent her stupid ladle over the man's head when she caught him poking around her cauldron when she had not been there. Anthony was much older than George, but not old enough to be Nona's son. Gabrielle guessed that he was either a grandchild or, at least, a glutton for punishment. He towered over her and Nona, and seemed as gangly as Ron Weasley even though he was older. Anthony spoke some Italian, and that helped some, but Gabrielle found herself thinking like Nona must: he was a simpleton.

It bothered Gabrielle that she could not work out whether Nona was a witch or not. That the old woman had bent the ladle over Anthony's head when he was so much taller might mean something, as did the fact that the utensil looked perfectly fine later in the day. Unless it was just another ladle. Gabrielle could see how Nona might go through them quickly if Anthony came by every day. She was as irascible as an Abraxan. Also, Nona, who cooked the meals for the entire encampment, did all the food preparation by hand. Well, now, mostly by Gabrielle's hand. Gabrielle never saw Nona with a wand, and was not allowed to use her own. That was the kind of rule squib households tended to have. Nona was clearly not just a muggle, though. She was unfazed by the wizards around her, and not the least bit thrown by Soleil.

Recalling Soleil's reaction to the slightly bent old woman made Gabrielle reconsider. A baleful glare from Nona had been enough to put an end to Soleil's threatening display and make the animal retreat; he stayed in the shadows of his stall if she were outside it. The big Abraxan, who had kicked and bit four grown wizards before Gabrielle had arrived, shied away from the old hag if she even turned his way. Soleil never gave way so easily, not even for Montaigne. Also, every meal was cooked in the big iron cauldron, and, as far as Gabrielle could see from what she had to peel, cut and chop, all the ingredients were pretty much the same. But what was served was not some version of the gross stews Gabrielle had endured so far, but proper meals that were quite good and very filling. Gabrielle's store of purloined cheese was no longer needed.

So it was likely that Nona really was a witch, concluded Gabrielle. Just not a modern witch. Nona was, after all, pretty old, though not centuries old. She probably did not have the chance to go to Beauxbatons when she was young and learn proper magic. That, decided Gabrielle, explained why Nona was working for Festeller.

The only oddity left without an explanation was the little thatched-roof house. It was quite small, both outside and inside. There was only one room, which was dominated by a massive stone hearth, which held the big black cauldron. The furnishings were sparse. There was a heavy table with two old wooden chairs set before the hearth. In the corner was a larger rocking chair. The gray wool blanket next to it suggested that it also functioned as the bed. Besides some barrels and sacks of supplies, there was hardly anything else in the little cottage. Certainly nothing that explained why it was there. Gabrielle was certain that Nona did not just happen to live right next to the excavation site, in the middle of nowhere. But a magical tent was so much more spacious and comfortable; one had to wonder why the mean little home was conjured up here. Was there even a bathroom? Gabrielle eyed the oak barrels with trepidation. Better not to know, advised a second thought.

Thwock! Nona and her ladle had returned, announcing their presence in the usual way. Gabrielle turned, surprised. She had been lost in thought. Nona snatched up Gabrielle's left hand, and pinched one of her fingers. "Ju jeni gjakderdhje, fëmijë," said Nona.

Gabrielle suspected that 'fëmijë' meant silly little girl. It was how she was addressed. The finger in the grasp of the old woman had been nicked by the ridiculous knife while Gabrielle's attention wandered. She had not even felt it! Nona spit something white and mushy into her hand, then pressed it around the bleeding digit. Gabrielle wrinkled her nose in disgust, but knew it was pointless to resist the ladle.

Nona had a guest, a plain-looking woman whose smart clothes suggested a more modern, muggle life. It was unexpected, because of the way the old woman was and because there was so much from the magical world just outside the door. There were laws to be obeyed! At least, there were in France. "Nona, you, eh, can not -"

Thwock. "Të shkuar, fëmijë." There was no doubt for Gabrielle as to what Nona wanted. The distinct push in the direction of the door was enough. Gabrielle wondered about the younger woman, what she might want with Nona, and if she would get the ladle also. This was certainly trouble for someone, in Gabrielle's opinion.

Actually, thought Gabrielle, it could be trouble for the entire expedition. It could even be a reason for the expedition to be canceled. She broke into a grin. Soleil needed exercise, did he not? Would it be her fault that the curious giant, winged, obviously magical horse looked into the cottage window? He was so hard to control. Gabrielle found herself skipping toward the colt's stall, and checked herself. That was childish.

Gabrielle did not make it to Soleil's stall. Professor Festeller appeared behind her with a small bang. Papa, noted Gabrielle smugly, was quieter. "Mademoiselle Delacour, please, yes, come with me. You are needed, yes, in the works," smiled her professor. Gabrielle was immediately suspicious. She had, in her dubious role as guest student, been dragged to the dig site every evening. There was nothing there that interested her, the bits of filthy rubble sieved from the soil of no obvious value. Frankly, most pieces looked like rocks. Gabrielle noticed the way Stanislaw hovered at the table as Abby jammed each piece of debris into the flared brass tubing, waiting for a death rattle from the lashed-together detector. What was the point?

"Eh, I was about to take Soleil for his exercise, Professor," said Gabrielle. That was a truth. "He is, eh, expecting it." That was a bit of a stretch. The needs of Soleil were often able to trump other concerns; it was a useful fact.

"Yes. Later, yes. This is important." Gabrielle's thoughts disagreed.

"Professor, Nona, eh, has a visitor. A muggle," tattled Gabrielle. She felt herself redden for that, feeling just a little guilty about causing Nona to get in trouble.

"From the local town, I believe, yes," nodded Festeller. He took up Gabrielle's arm and apparated to the pit the excavation charms had created.

The pit looked considerably different than it had on the tour the prior evening. The wooden table with the piles of crushed who-knew-what was still there, but now it, and Abby, were on a terrace overlooking a much deeper opening. The new depths had an uneven floor of stone blocks, which was badly tilted and sagging at the edges. It was something Gabrielle had not expected to see, and she was, despite her other thoughts, curious.

"It is the wall of the tower, yes. The remains, yes, of course. The blocks were quarried by muggles. You can see the chipped edges. But see that the joints were magically, yes, welded together," explained Festeller. "The earliest, yes, the technique is known to be used was 1300AD. There is access to the interior. That is where you are needed."

Gabrielle turned sharply at that. He was not really going to make her crawl into some dank, dirty tunnel was he? This whole situation stank like a pile of Abraxan dung. Not only, thought Gabrielle, did she have to move said dung - a metric ton - but she was also helping to prepare meals. And now she was to retrieve broken bits and pieces from a filthy hole? How was this a summer holiday? Maybe, considered Gabrielle, she should try to be more like Fleur. She was sure no one would even consider asking her sister to do such things. It was too bad Festeller was not a lot older, though it was hard to fathom him being more insane. She might have had a chance to enthrall him if he was. If she could get over the creepiness.

"Come. The footing, yes, is solid," said Festeller, waving her forward.

"Eh, Professor, I should, eh, change," requested Gabrielle. She indicated her skirt. The blouse with all the pockets was at least useful, if not very strange. Poisseux could easily fit into the larger ones, provided he kept his promise to stay still. At least, she thought that he had promised - it was hard to tell. But crawling around in a skirt in front of everyone was - not - going to happen.

"There is no time! There is a chamber!" declared Festeller. He was obviously excited, which to Gabrielle meant that he had managed to find an intact bowl or something. The professor liked old things. Maybe, thought Gabrielle, he had found a plate used by - what was it again? - the first Master of Time. Or, she shuddered, perhaps he had found pieces of the first Master of Time.

Access to the interior was not through some burrow-like opening, but down a flight of stairs precisely carved into the surrounding earth. These led down to a kind of civilized cavern, which was also lined with stone blocks. It was disorientating, and it took Gabrielle a moment to realize that they were inside the old tower, and that the tower was laying on its side. A cluster of wizards and witches stood around a hole in the floor, from which a shower of confetti erupted with a noise like that of Nona honing her huge knife, only multiplied by a thousand. Not a hole, corrected a second thought, a doorway.

"Dumme Kühe. You have shown it happens each time. Enough." Gabrielle was unhappy to see Stanislaw there. This time his ire was not directed at her, but the others.

"Mademoiselle Delacour is here, yes. Now we shall see," announced Festeller cryptically. The others turned to face her; Stanislaw covered his eyes with his palm. Gabrielle's second thoughts set off an alarm, and she found herself half-turning back to the stairs. "Mlle Delacour, if you would, please?" The professor beckoned her forward.

"Would what?" demanded Gabrielle somewhat shrilly. It had not been confetti that had rained down, but thin shavings of wood. Each time? They were not going to make her go through that opening!

"It is nothing dangerous," reassured Festeller. "You will take out your wand, yes, and stand just there."

"Why?" demanded Gabrielle suspiciously. There were two witches and five wizards who could be doing just that, but they were not.

"Yes, why? The magic has stood for centuries," muttered Stanislaw. "A child..."

"The Goblet of Fire, yes, chose you. I believe this is why, yes," explained Festeller with a look to his fellow countryman, who shook his head resignedly.

Gabrielle was conflicted. While she would gladly show up the malignant Stanislaw, it was very apparent that this could prove very embarrassing, or disastrous. The spot that Festeller seem to indicate was not that close to the opening, but it was much closer than where she stood now. And she - did - have her blond wand. It was tied to a ribbon around her neck, hidden inside her blouse so that Nona did not see it. Doing some magic other than vanishing Soleil's output would be fun, thought Gabrielle. Failing to do anything in front of everyone, who were now stepping back into a wide semi-circle around the hole, would not be.

In the end, Gabrielle could not see how she could refuse the professor's request. He was a professor, after all. She stepped to the spot, circumscribing a wide arc around the dark opening, and pulled out her wand. Then, when nothing happened, she asked, "Eh, what now?"

"Concentrate, yes, on the opening. Pietre will create another mannequin, yes."

Concentrate, wondered Gabrielle, on a doorway? What is there to concentrate on when it comes to a doorway? A door, yes, it would make sense to concentrate on that. But a doorway was an absence of anything to concentrate on. It made no sense, so Gabrielle concentrated on looking like she was concentrating, all the while wondering if anyone could tell.

The problem was the smell. Gabrielle had not noticed it at first, but now that she was closer to the opening in the floor the musty odor was more intrusive. It was definitely coming from below, and smelled very peculiar. It was familiar, yet not, and then it suddenly came to Gabrielle. It was...

The sweet, sickly-sweet fragrance of her enemies' burning flesh. The fools had come for her in their hordes, and presently scrabbled frantically up the burning corpses of their comrades. How long had she tolerated the vermin whose flesh now melted, allowing them their pathetic lives, only for them to waste themselves against her now? It only made sense if there was another; one who moved hidden in the background. She knew it to be true, how else could her sanctuary, Dragothuan, be breached? The one in the shadows would strike soon, but for now, as the door shattered at a blow, there was chattel to feed to the flames. She raised her staff, her precious Wyrmbreath, but turned at the sound of her name. That voice - it could not be him, could it? He was dead. Yet even as the thought sought reassurance in her memories, her eyes stared at the truth. No, nearly the truth. Dead, or so he should have been, for half a century, yet not one of those years showed on his face. She shifted the staff slightly, so as to allow her to look through the crystal affixed to the carved top. Dead, yet not dead. Undead, the worst of that ilk. She spun and lashed a wall of flame at the villagers goaded into the assault. She knew what he was, knew that they were unwitting actors, but it did not stay her hand. They would kill her if they could, and she cared not a whit for them in any case. He called her name again, and struck the floor with his heel. The tower shook and heaved, stones crashed, and -

Gabrielle raised her head groggily , and grimaced with pain. Letting her head drop brought another grimace. Her hands went to her head, and found it swaddled in bandages. What had happened? She wondered where she was also until she opened her eyes, then she wondered why she was where she was. Gabrielle knew she was in Nona's rocking chair, covered with the blanket. She double-checked the wrappings on her head. They definitely felt like bandages, and not like Nona's mucus-based poultice. That was a thought to make her shudder.

The room was very dim, but there was light at the edges of the windows. Nona had another guest, an older woman who wept into a handkerchief. That did not seem to elicit much sympathy from the old witch. A curious scene, but what Gabrielle focused on was something that she could barely see. Between the crying woman and Nona was - a crystal ball. Nona was a Seer as well! Surely she would let Gabrielle use the crystal, just for a quick scrying attempt, or two, to see how George was doing.

Or, came a meaner thought, Nona was a fraud, fleecing Confunded muggles for money. That would probably mean that the crystal ball was not a real one, though, which would not be as useful to Gabrielle. It was better to assume that the old woman could sense the Hidden Realm, and... Well, asking was another problem entirely. Gabrielle would just have to hope Nona somehow guessed what she wanted.

It was then that Gabrielle noticed that Nona was looking right at her, in the way she would look over whatever groceries Anthony brought by before beginning the evening meal. The scrutiny made Gabrielle uncomfortable, so she quickly shut her eyes to feign sleep.

Too late. Gabrielle heard the scrape of the chair, and Nona's strong grip was already pulling her upright. "I am sorry!" blurted Gabrielle by instinct, although, a second thought pointed out, she - might - not have done anything wrong. Gabrielle was not completely sure, because she did not exactly know what had happened to her head.

"Ju do të ndihmojë, fëmijë," announced Nona. Gabrielle staggered unsteadily after the old hag. Should she not be resting? Nona dragged her to the table, and made her sit on a barrel. Gabrielle glanced at the visitor, who was not presently crying, but shrank away from the affronted look. Gabrielle did not know was going to happen, but the other woman clearly did not want her to be there. It was the same thought Gabrielle had. Nona must have sensed it, and banged her ladle on the table. Was that because her head was injured, or because the bandages would provide too much cushioning?

With one hand gripped tightly by Nona and the other reluctantly by her guest, Gabrielle stared at the crystal and tried to become invisible. Nona began chanting. The repeated lines meant nothing to Gabrielle. She wondered if they meant anything to the other woman. Madame Sombrevoir never had students hold hands to use the big crystal ball, or used chants. The fraud thought crept back into Gabrielle's head, where it was chased out when her hand was suddenly crushed painfully in Nona's. Gabrielle gave out a sharp cry, then turned angrily to give Nona a Fleur-like Look of Death, only to find Nona's eyes boring into hers.

Then, then the dour little cottage was gone, replaced by the ugly exterior of a concrete apartment building painted, optimistically, a cheerful red and white. There were words on the sign outside that Gabrielle could not read, but at the same time knew read "Colony Inn". A young woman, dressed well, pushed a pram up the block toward the steps. Behind her trailed a very young child, who kept up in bursts. Gabrielle could not decide whether it was a little girl or boy. From the building came a young man, dressed in clothes expensive enough to look worn on purpose, with long hair held back in a ponytail. The toddler ran toward him, tripped and fell over nothing, then bounced back up to complete the journey. Definitely a boy, decided Gabrielle. The young man picked up the child in a swinging arc, and carried him back to the woman, who he kissed in greeting. They walked back together to the steps of the building. The woman plucked an infant from the pram; the man slung the pram over his shoulder easily, and carried it and the boy up the steps. They entered the apartment building, and the scene slowly faded from Gabrielle's eyes until the gleaming ball was again what she saw.

Nona was up quickly, gently pulling Gabrielle's hand from that of her guest, who was weeping again. Gabrielle's head was spinning, and hurting, so Nona ended up carrying her back to the rocking chair. She tucked the blanket around Gabrielle, then put her hand over Gabrielle's eyes. "Fle."

v - v - v - v - v

Harry Potter lay on his back on the roof of the warehouse behind which the tent was pitched. George, it seemed, had run out of contacts this far south. They had chosen the site based on the heavy chain across the gate, and the layer of rust that suggested that neither gate nor lock had opened in years. Hermione had cast a variety of charms and wards anyway.

He lay marveling at how thoroughly city lights could wash out the night sky. Mars would have to be really bright to even be seen through the glare. That thought made him wonder how Firenze and the remaining centaurs were doing. Harry knew they were actively avoiding Hagrid, who left supplies out for them anyway. The herd had had their fill of wizards, suspected Harry. Which brought him back to the reason he had sought out a quiet place to think. George had said that no wizard or witch could make a spell work with just the incantation if they did not know what the spell was supposed to do. Harry had wondered at that, because he had, he was sure, done just that. Both the Levicorpus and the Sectumsempra had just been words scrawled in the margins of a book, and yet he had managed to cast both with nothing more. That was not supposed to be possible. So, either George was wrong, or...

Or, thought Harry, it had something to do with the powers Voldemort had accidentally transferred to him when he was an infant. That had been Dumbledore's explanation for the Parseltongue ability, and it could explain the spells. Except... having some sort of prior experience with a spell seemed more like a memory, a bit of knowledge. Which was decidedly more worrisome, because he was, after all, chasing down items with bits of Voldemort transferred into them. The diary had held memories, while the snake, Nagini, had been both alive and a... Harry did not even want to think it. Even not thinking it left him nauseated. He remembered the twin, twisting columns of smoke that Professor Dumbledore had examined after Mister Weasley had been attacked. In essence, divided. That had seemed like good news at the time, but now Harry wondered if the Headmaster had missed something far more sinister. Not to mention bloody inconvenient! How was he supposed to eliminate all the horcruxes if, if... Would Dumbledore have told him? Merlin! Harry needed someone to talk to about this. He couldn't see it being Ginny, Ron, or Hermione, though. All the reactions he could imagine - well, he'd rather face the backside of a Blast-Ended Skrewt than that. Moony - that's who he needed. If they were muggles, thought Harry, he would just ring him up. But with neither Hedwig or the Floo network available, he was a little lost as to how he could contact his guardian.

"Hello, Harry," said Ginny. She rose above the lip of the rooftop, then hopped off the Firebolt. A glance at his face and she asked, "What's wrong?"

Harry looked up as Ginny spoke, then down, before reminding himself of manners. Ginny wore one of Dudley's old pull-overs that did not fit Harry even after a growth spurt, and, here he swallowed hard as his imagination ran free, possibly nothing else. Her lithe, alabaster legs were wonderfully bare, and the neck had slipped down and exposed a freckled shoulder. "Nothing," he replied. What could be wrong? "I was just, um, admiring the sky."

"Not much to admire in it - you can hardly see the stars," noted Ginny. She stretched, and Harry watched the hem of the pull-over rise and fall an inch more.

"Yeah," agreed Harry. That was pathetic Potter, he upbraided himself. Try harder. "You look nice." In Dudley's old cast-offs - absolutely brilliant, git.

Ginny said nothing to that, but settled on her side next to him. "George is off on an errand; Ron and Hermione are having another of their 'flying lessons'."

"What's that face for? I think it's really good she's getting over her fear. That's really hard," said Harry.

"Something's hard all right. Did you ever wonder why she's in front of Ron?" asked Ginny.

"Well, so he could keep her on the broomstick, I suppose."

"Hah! She's riding a broomstick all right, and it's not the Firebolt. Didn't you ever notice she only screams at the end?"

Harry's eyes bulged. "What? You mean - You're joking, right?"

"She'd never admit it, but I used your cloak. It's disgusting, and then she has the nerve to give me a hard time," complained Ginny.

Ron, thought Harry, has to be the luckiest bloke in Merlin's realm. Harry was not sure how to respond to Ginny, though. She had said it was disgusting, but it sounded like fun and she - had - brought the broom... "George is off too?" he asked instead of making the suggestion. This must be the Tower of the Mind thing, thought Harry, to say something besides what you really, really want to.

"Yeah. He's off looking for an owl, even if he says otherwise." Ginny moved closer, and draped an arm and leg over Harry.

"An owl?" asked Harry, though he was suddenly no longer interested in a solution to some problem he was having in what seemed ages ago.

"He does write to her. Gigi, I mean. He'll say it's about the Wheezes, but I'm starting to wonder if Fred's right and she did really get to him," whispered Ginny, her lips close to his ear. "I was wondering if we could go back to the tent and... do a little magic?"

"You mean?"

"I found where Hermione was keeping her notes," breathed the youngest Weasley.

v - v - v - v - v

Snape stared at the wizard who stood at the stained-glass window. The pane, dimly lit by the candles, looked out over an expanse of dark forest, and showed a horrific scene in which an obvious wizard had freed himself from the stake he was meant to be burned at, and was laying waste to the gathered crowd. Red dominated the palette. The man showed an anxious nervousness not unexpected when one faced the Dark Lord. In this case, however, the wizard had met the Dark Lord with relief and gratitude, and was now merely awaiting the outcome of the Dark Lord's intervention.

This wizard that Snape watched spoke only French, of which the former professor knew just a smattering. This was a quiet vigil. The Dark Lord, a more accomplished Legilimens than possibly even Dumbledore had been, used that to communicate with their host. It seemed inconceivable to Snape that the first task upon reaching France was to travel to this remote village, near the eastern border, on a mission of mercy. The French wizard had had the temerity to beg the Dark Lord for an audience, a boon, in exchange for his servitude, if the Dark Lord would use his power to heal his son. Such an impertinent request would normally be granted only if the lost Nagini needed food. The usual response depended on which of the Death Eaters was sent, but it was always unpleasant. Today, again, inconceivably, the Dark Lord at commiserated with the father before gathering the potions to see to the boy. The best healers in France had allegedly examined the youth, so Snape wondered at the charade. It had been nearly an hour since the Dark Lord had entered the bedroom and sealed the door. What did it all mean?

When the door finally opened, it was the boy who stepped over the threshold. He was pale and thin, with sunken cheeks, but obviously no longer unconscious. He looked like a third year, judged Snape. The potions master moved to view the room beyond the boy, and could not suppress a gasp of shock. The Dark Lord lay, eyes wide, in a spreading pool of blood, unmoving. No, thought Snape, his eyes snapping to the boy, who held a wand behind his back.

"Father," called the son. In English, noted Snape. He understood now.

"(My son! My beautiful boy!)" cried the French wizard joyously, moving to the boy quickly to embrace.

"_Avada Kedavra._"

v - v - v - v - v

Harry Potter, the Chosen One, the Boy-Who-Lived, rolled onto his side, pulling the sodden bedroll to cover his head. His scar burned, his skull ached, and his eye twitched. And, of course, he was bloody near drowned.

"I don't think that helped, Ron," observed Hermione.

"It did. 'E's not shouting anymore."

"That wasn't the hoop we were aiming for, you thick git!" complained Ginny.

"It's a start. I've had more experience with this than you."

Harry found that the wet blanket, while soothing to his damned scar and his eyes, was not otherwise comfortable and hard to breathe through. He wondered if a groan would be good enough, or would Ron just refill his bucket. His scar had not hurt like that for ages. Voldemort, Riddle, was happy. Ecstatic, even, and feeling confident.

"Harry?" called Ginny, her hands on his shoulder. "Are you all right?"

Yes, thought Harry, her touch making his stomach do flips. Perhaps there was a ritual that could break the link. The earlier attempted ritual had not gone as Ginny had expected. There was no blue magical aura, least that he noticed. But he had been more than happy to give it a second try! Ginny had seemed pleased after the second attempt, which automatically meant that Harry was pleased. He promised himself to pay closer attention in the future as to what the magic was supposed to be for, though.

"Snap out of it, Potter. Ron's gone for more water," warned Ginny.

Harry rolled over. "I'm fine."

"What was it, Harry? What did you see?" asked Hermione at once.

"Voldemort's happy again," started Harry. He tried to judge which was worse for him, Voldemort happy, or angry. "I dunno why though. He killed two people."

"Death Eaters?" asked Ron hopefully. He had indeed returned with a full bucket. "He takes out more'n we do."

"Dunno - they didn't have masks, and I never saw them before. He called one of them, er, father?" reported Harry uncertainly. That made no sense. Riddle had killed his own father decades ago.

"A priest perhaps?" guessed Hermione. "Could you see the room? Did it look like a church?"

"Erm, it looked like a regular room, I suppose. A little like Grimauld Place, actually," replied Harry, but he was thinking about Voldemort calling someone father.

"What's the odd bit you're thinking about now?" asked Ginny.

"It's just, er, the man Riddle called 'father'. He was speaking French, but I could understand it. He called Voldemort 'son', and a 'boy'," related Harry.

"French?" barked Ron in surprise. "He bloody knows we're here?"

"That is one possibility. He could also be on his way to Durmstrang, instead," offered Hermione.

"Voldemort seemed shorter than usual, too," added Harry thoughtfully. "Like the mantel over the fireplace was much higher than normal."

"Not a good look for a Dark Lord," noted Ginny.

"One doesn't have to be that tall if everyone else is grovelling," said Hermione.

"There's a cheery thought."

"Should we have guards or something?" asked Ron. "You know - in case?"

"I rather doubt that would stop him," came a voice from the corner of the tent. "We'll travel faster if we aren't knackered," hinted George.

"I suppose," agreed Hermione. Harry shifted his soggy bedroll.

"My blanket's dry, Harry," cooed Ginny.

"So is his, once he uses his wand," reminded George firmly.

v - v - v - v - v

Gabrielle woke, and found herself in her own bed. She did not remember getting up, so someone must have moved her. Her head was still bandaged; a visit to the camp's healer was needed. But first, she would -

No, first was Soleil! If no had fed him then he was bound to be furious, and the stall was only made of wood. He would get out and stomp, kick, and bite things, people. For which, Gabrielle knew, she would be unfairly blamed.

A rumble from her stomach made Gabrielle think again. There was no screaming and shouting, nor the crunch of curly brass tubes under hoof. She did not remember having dinner, so first she would have some breakfast herself. The bread she had hidden in her handbag was probably stale by now, and the cheese somewhat crusty, but both could be fixed with the careful application of heat. While the tent had nothing to cook with or on, Gabrielle needed nothing but her wand. The cool trick with the swirling ball of flames could, if one was very careful with how close things got, make toast and melt cheese. Or, incinerate both. Gabrielle had used the technique three times in the dorms at Beauxbatons; twice successfully, once - well, a Howler from Maman had covered that ground already.

When she got to the table in the tent's eating area, though, Gabrielle found a plate with fresh bread, eggs, and farm cheese warm and waiting for her. It was a complete surprise for Gabrielle. When she first arrived, she had not even been called for meals, and now her breakfast was brought to her? This was definitely better! Gabrielle discarded her stale bread, but put the cheese back in the handbag. It was still edible, and she did not know how long this new arrangement would last. She took up the fork set next to the plate. A cynical thought wondered if it had been Abby, feeling sorry for her again; Nona, missing the kitchen help; or Festeller, feeling guilty about making her stand there, who had brought the food.

Suspecting Festeller made Gabrielle wonder again what had happened. She had some strange memories, but none explained why her head was wrapped. Gabrielle remembered the musty odor from the opening that, due to her grounding in the sensory humours, had brought on a Seer's trance. That explained why she had a very vivid, and very disturbing, memories of people burning. Of burning people, with magic. And, there had been a vampire!

How that had resulted in a head injury, though, was still a mystery. Gabrielle would have guessed that she had fallen into the hole, or doorway, but she was not confetti. The next logical answer was that the cavern - no, the tower - the fallen tower had... fallen some more. It was clearly an unsafe situation for a student to be placed in! Papa, when he hears of it, envisioned Gabrielle, will change Maman's mind, and her days of peeling vegetables and vanishing filth will be at an end. She could have a proper holiday then. One that involved laying in the sun, however pointlessly, with Monique, or even visiting Fleur, and the Burrow, in Britain.

Britain, though she tried not to consciously think it, meant possibly seeing George, and either apologizing on her knees or slapping him silly. She alternated between the two, depending on how mortified she felt at getting caught versus how much she felt George had over-reacted. Gabrielle's heart had leapt and she had nearly sliced off a finger with excitement when she saw the owl with the thick letter sweeping in low. The correspondence had only been from Maman, reminding her of the importance of the opportunity, how to politely address her professors, and many other things which Gabrielle had skipped over. The owl had been thoroughly unpleasant, and while it had waited for her to quickly write reassurances to her Maman that she was doing everything the letter suggested, whatever that was, it would not take a second letter to George. The bird refused even after Gabrielle showed that her two messages together weighed less than Maman's original missive - Maman had very specific ideas as to proper behavior. Gabrielle had amended her reply to ask Papa for some galleons so she could pay the next owl.

Finished with her breakfast, Gabrielle put on the metal overshoes and clumped her way to Soleil's stall. She expected it to be half-collapsed from his impatient kicking if he had not been fed. He was, after all, thought Gabrielle, still growing - poor Montaigne. From the outside, the stall looked whole. Gabrielle decided that Soleil deserved an extra measure of oats soaked in the liquor for self-control. That might be spoiling him, thought Gabrielle, unless he had not been fed, in which case it was only catching him up.

Actually, now that Gabrielle thought about it, Soleil was never this quiet even if everything was to his satisfaction. She had the idea that the colt liked everyone else to know he was around, to remind them that things should stay to his satisfaction. Fleur was a little like that. Soleil could not, wondered Gabrielle, starve to death in a single night, could he? She hurried forward with the heavy bucket of feed, noting even as she did that yet another bottle seemed to have gone missing. She would have to tell Festeller to look into it, unless another rampage was fine with him.

"Soleil?" called Gabrielle's from the stall's door. No boisterous response today, just a quiet snuffle from the shadows. The hairs went up on the back of Gabrielle's neck - something was very wrong. "I am sorry, Soleil. I was, eh, hurt yesterday and..." She trailed off. With her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she could see that the huge Abraxan had pressed himself against the back wall of the stall, and looked as if it had seen a dragon. There was not a bit of hay left in the box. He should have been nosing the pail before she had even stepped through the gate, but instead the animal shuffled nervously. Gabrielle set the bucket down and went directly to him. The towering creature seem to try to hide behind her. "What is wrong? Did you eat something you were not supposed to?" He shook his massive head, but it was probably coincidence. She looked around the stall. There was some damage, but nothing that appeared half-eaten.

Gabrielle spotted it hung on a nail near the front corner of the enclosure. A bizarre little figure, made from thin, twisted twigs of hazel. Where had that come from? Gabrielle took down the crude doll from the wall, and turned to Soleil. "Who put this up?" she asked, more to herself that to the colt. Even if he knew, she was not likely to understand the answer.

She had barely finished the rhetorical question when Soleil reared and neighed in fear, front hooves lashing out. Gabrielle startled, stepped back, and tripped over the bucket of whiskey and oats. "Soleil! Stop that!" she scolded, angry because the dripping mass had spilled and because she was covered in it. One night of hunger, thought Gabrielle in irritation, and Soleil has completely lost his senses! "It is just some twigs." Gabrielle held it up and the animal bridled again. Oh mon Dieu, thought Gabrielle. How ridiculous was this? A pathetic display - he is lucky the herd is not here to see. Gabrielle got to her feet with her back turned, hiding the offending item. She carried out of the stall, set it on the ground, and called back to Soleil, "Watch." With practiced ease, she conjured the hungry yellow flames and set the strange totem alight. It burned with an oddly intense, twisting green flame and, just for a moment, she imagined she could see Nona's dark eyes in the fire. These were things Gabrielle's mind noted, but only recalled later.

That was because one should not conjure flame if one has been soaked in 180 proof whiskey. Pretty, bluish, nearly invisible flames raced up her sleeves and spread across her front. These were followed by smokier, sturdier flames as the blouse's fabric began to burn. Beneath the fabric was her skin, which sent very clear, very important messages to her brain. Those enabled her to move very quickly from surprise to panic. Gabrielle screamed and batted at the burning blouse.

"_Aguamenti!_" A torrent of water doused Gabrielle, except it had been from behind. She spun around to face the source, another gush from which was on its way from Abby's wand. "Merlin, Gabby! Are you all right?"

Gabrielle did not feel like answering. Was it ever possible to be on fire and be all right? With the doll's destruction and Abby's arrival, Soleil decided that it was time to reassert himself. His sudden appearance, loud neighing, and bared teeth sent Abby into retreat with a shriek. It sent Gabrielle into a rage. She turned on Abraxan, slightly toasted and thoroughly wet. "Non! Not after the way you were earlier! You are like this after being afraid of a doll? Non, you, eh, [bugger bastard]!" Gabrielle stomped back to the stall, furious. The confused colt turned and retreated back to the rear wall. Disgusted, because she did not think that he should cower anymore than he should strut, Gabrielle spun again, parried, and thrust her wand out. She snapped, "_Accio_ hay bale!" The result infuriated her more, since when the hay bale did arrive she had no way to stop it, and it sent her tumbling. Landing on the floor in the deep recesses of an Abraxan's stall was not pleasant, and definitely not hygienic. Gabrielle threw caution to the wind, and started vanishing everything that displeased her. Except Soleil.


	13. Caught Again

Chapter Thirteen - Caught Again

Gabrielle sat on the little cot in the camp's infirmary, and tried to become invisible again. It had been a while since she had felt the need to make the futile attempt, at least this often. The last time had been at Beauxbatons, shortly after the extremely accidental and extremely minor forest fire, which had been an accident.

The infirmary was just a large room in the healer's tent with a dozen small cots, and one set of privacy screens, which Gabrielle wanted back. Part of the reason for her desire was the very flimsy, very short robe she was given to wear. The healer, who insisted on the formal Healer Fixelos, had taken one sniff of Gabrielle's clothes and insisted on their removal. That was understandable, since Gabrielle had fallen in Soleil's stall. The harried witch then vanished the clothing. That was understandable too, since they were burned up anyway, but Gabrielle had only barely been able to retrieve Poisseux and Pepi-Z from their pockets. They all endured a thorough Scourgify session. Healer Fixelos, judged Gabrielle, had the worst bedside manner.

The larger part of the reason Gabrielle wanted the screens back lay on the cot to the left, and, frankly, on more than half of the cots in the room. Stanislaw, still with the orange burn paste on him, was on the neighboring cot! He had heaved himself onto his side with endless groans after cryptically asking Gabrielle whether she had burned down the camp yet, or finally managed to kill someone. Gabrielle had spent enough time in hospital wards with delirious patients; she ignored him by trying to become invisible. She tried very hard to do so, since the other patients were giving her odd looks too. They were being treated for burns as well, which might have explained why Healer Fixelos was annoyed by Gabrielle's injuries. Fortunately, Gabrielle's burns were minor enough to be treated by a general skin-soothing unction, as the supply of the usual burn paste was currently exhausted. The bandages were removed, and her head deemed adequately healed - despite a snide comment from Stanislaw. Gabrielle discovered that someone had found it necessary to lop off half of her hair on one side. She hoped Stanislaw's injuries were as painful as his complaints made them seem.

Invisibility had not been attained, since Abby had no problem finding her way to Gabrielle. Abby had accompanied Gabrielle to the infirmary tent, after Gabrielle had spent herself in Soleil's stall. She wondered if the dark-haired witch had been assigned to be another minder by Festeller. Or, suggested a second thought, Abby just needed an excuse to be here so she could talk to the wizard in the corner cot. Or not talk to him; the couple were acting very sheepishly about the whole visit, as if they were not ready for others to think of them as a couple. Gabrielle knew she would not be that way with George. Why would she? He was the one for her. If you found the one, thought Gabrielle, why pretend otherwise?

"Hello Gab- I mean, Gigi," greeted Abby. "Are you feeling better?"

"Is that your boyfriend?" asked Gabrielle, just because it was on the tip of her tongue. Her Maman's lessons did not always take.

Abby blushed and failed to hide a smile. "Um... Well... It's kind of, uh... Is that a toad?"

Gabrielle followed Abby's finger. Poisseux was plodding his way across her pillow, with the same air of relentlessness that he always had. She plucked him up and set him on her lap. "Oui, this is Poisseux. He is a toad - a zombie toad, but very, eh -" Gabrielle looked for the right word. Fierce? Determined? Monomaniacal? "- dependable." Poisseux angled upward slightly in greeting. Not his usual angle, though. She must have interrupted an important mission.

"Not a real zombie, right? That looks like spellotape?"

"It is, eh, from the house-elves," shrugged Gabrielle. The expression on Abby's face suggested that that was not sufficient, but the rest was too complicated. "I have a pygmy puffskein who is also a zombie." She felt around for the red bobble.

"Are all your pets zombies?"

Gabrielle was about to answer yes, and that there was nothing wrong with that and it had not been her fault anyway, when Stanislaw muttered, "Surprised anything can survive near her."

"Ignore him," said Gabrielle with the same tone but very quietly, just in case. "He is delirious, and has lost his senses."

Abby did not ignore him, but stared at the older, convalescing wizard. Then she turned back to Gabrielle and asked, "Why did you try to burn everyone?"

"Eh, what?"

"Try?" grunted Stanislaw.

"Shut up. That is very rude," said Gabrielle. Maman always said so, at least when it was Gabrielle who did it.

"At first I thought the glyphs that anchored the ward had exploded when Pietre's mannequin went in, but Pietre said that you started speaking some weird language and then began shooting fire from your wand," said Abby. "You burned off his cute little..." She stopped herself.

Gabrielle was about to deny any such thing, and had, in fact, opened her mouth to do so, when she reconsidered. What Abby described sounded like her vision, where she ruthlessly incinerated the invaders. Which, realized Gabrielle, made it not her fault at all. It was the sensory humours. She closed her mouth and smiled.

"You did do it?" accused Abby, misinterpreting Gabrielle's expression.

"Eh, what? Non! That is, yes, but it was not, eh, my fault."

"Who has lost their senses? Eine wandelnde Gefahr." Stanislaw was facing the wrong way for a glare to work. Not that Gabrielle's had the impact of her sister's.

"What do you mean? You were holding the wand!"

"I am grounded in the sensory humours," explained Gabrielle. She tried to make it sound like a good thing, as opposed to something a healer should look into. "I can - See - the past." She always paused after announcing that, for the effect.

"I just read about it in books. Why would you try to kill everyone?" demanded Abby.

"They were invading my tower," replied Gabrielle. She explained about the Seer's trance, what she had Seen, and about the vampire. Stanislaw had rolled back over halfway through, sans groaning, and listened intently. Gabrielle did not care if he was impressed or not, as long as he stayed silent. Although, she did prefer him facing the other way.

Abby, on the other hand, was supposed to be impressed. Or at least intrigued. Instead, she was worried. "So, that can happen at any time? Maybe someone should hold your wand."

"Eh, mostly it happens when I am eating or drinking," reassured Gabrielle half-heartedly. She hardly tried to hide her disappointment. "It was the smell, from the hole in the floor."

"Oh," said Abby. "But still -"

"How did my head get hurt?" asked Gabrielle abruptly. No one else had bandages. Perhaps she was not the only one who should lose their wand.

"I did not exactly see. I thought there was an explosion, and - "

"The magic, the warding, stood for centuries. With you there, when the mannequin went in, the slicing barrier cut it and half a meter of the edge opposite. The barrier destroyed itself," inserted Stanislaw.

"That was not my fault," said Gabrielle hotly.

"You should be nicer to him," advised Abby. "He shielded you from most of the falling stones, even though you had just set him on fire."

"She will have a chance soon, I think," declared Stanislaw, with an uncharacteristic smile. Gabrielle disregarded him. She was not worried. Soleil's stall was smelly, but a sanctuary. And Nona had her ladle.

v - v - v - v - v

Lord Voldemort examined the smooth, young hands before him, and luxuriated in total control. This body had the vigor of youth, excellent magical capacity, and not a trace of an opposing will. He knew it was there, somewhere, in the dark young mind; he would need to be wary. But his own will did not wear this body like a set of ill-fitted robes; he was the body, and the body was him. The improved circumstances brought new possibilities, as the burden of finding and grooming potential hosts, and suffering their limitations, was now eased. He no longer needed to account for Snape and the muggle widow's tedious progress in the development of the chimera techniques. There was no urgent need for a fully magical body - dealing with the goblins could wait for a more opportune moment. Little now stood between Lord Voldemort and all the world's magic. Just Potter, and the proper wand.

The youth's wand was quite strong, and, the Dark Lord smiled, capable of the darkest of curses. It was willing, but Lord Voldemort could feel its confusion. The father's wand was an embarrassment, snapped without a second thought. The French wizard would have made a worthless minion; testing the wand's limits was all he had been good for.

The boy's wand would indeed do for now, and would make the quest for the wand, the Wand, easier. The new body - no, his new body would make travel easier as well. Who would suspect a child? Besides Dumbledore, that is, and he was dead. Severus himself forgot this morning and, smirked the Dark Lord, tried to take house-points. The personae of the Chairman was but an age potion and glamour away, and less for most, since this boy had shared a talent for Legilimency. Lord Voldemort now saw that his plan to exterminate the parasites could move more quickly. He would reach Gregorovitch by this evening, and he would wrench the final chapter of the Wand of Destiny from the wandmaker by whatever means were necessary. Then, the book that held that chapter would be erased.

v - v - v - v - v

"Don't tell me - there's no bacon again," sighed Ron Weasley, having pawed through the wrappings already.

"Can't be helped. Breakfast in these parts is a bit of bun and coffee thick enough to stand a spoon in," explained George. "There's more cold meat in slime, though."

"Urgh."

"It's a terrine, actually," corrected Hermione. "They're lovely for picnics."

"Reminds me of a stew gone cold and rubbery."

"Suit yourself then. Don't have any."

"I never said I wasn't going to have any! I'll just heat it up with my wand."

"Letter get sent off all right?" asked Ginny innocently.

"Letters, since you ask. Mum's in a state over the trip, so I let her know everything's fine," replied George.

"What? You told her what we're doing?" exclaimed Harry, spraying crumbs from his bun.

"Don't be thick. So far we've spent days looking for Paris because there's too many muggles to do a Point-Me, and now we're only up to 'G' in the search for the book. It's an epic tale with many hardships and setbacks, where the only shining light of hope takes the form of a slightly dry ham sandwich, lovingly wrapped, at the end of the day."

"Come again?"

"'G', huh? Isn't 'G' for - " began Ginny.

"The Order got a similar report, except in that one we were back-tracking and feinting to cover our trail, and we were examining every book in the shop so it would not be obvious which one was of interest. Constant vigilance," continued George, "is our watchword."

"And the last letter?" hinted Ginny.

George smiled. "The - last - letter went to Porgie, letting him know that, as a valued - well, as an employee of the Weasley's Wizard Wheezes empire - sorry, our humble joke shop, we can help him with this:" An addition of the Prophet appeared in his hands. The headline read 'Sanctuary! Ministry matches muggle moves.' Below the words was a picture of an ancient wizard enthusiastically jabbing his wand at a chalkboard, on which seemed to be drawings of large green bubbles. Crude stick figures drawn in red chalk threw what seemed to be balls toward the bubbles. The balls rebounded off the green bubbles, to the satisfaction of the pictured wizard. "Also, that Philippe already knows about the sickles in his pockets."

"What the hell is that supposed to be?"

"Ron! Please, we're eating here," scolded Hermione.

"Oh, sorry. Wait - what?"

"Give it here," said Ginny to George, reaching for the newspaper. "What - is - that supposed to be?"

"Oy, Harry. Reign her in a bit," complained George.

"Er, Ginny?" started Harry.

"Yes Harry? What is it that you wanted?" replied Ginny, in a tone inherited from her mother.

"Erm, any more buns?"

"Well that's that, then," said George with a theatrical head shake.

"That wizard, that's Algernon Croaker, isn't it?" asked Hermione.

"Croaker? Where have I heard that name before?" wondered Harry.

"This tureen's not half bad warmed up."

"It's a - was a terrine, Ron. Tureen is for soup," corrected Hermione. "Croaker is an Unspeakable in the Department of Mysteries."

"It is kind of soupy now."

"I dunno - the caption says he's A. C. Smith, and expert in Waverly fields," read Ginny.

"It's him," said George sourly. "Do not run him a tab."

"The red stick figures are supposed to be muggle soldiers," continued Ginny.

"Throwing quaffles?" asked Ron.

"Don't be stupid. Those are meant to be bombs."

"May I have the paper now Ginny?" requested Hermione.

"Ha! They should consult Fred - reasonable hourly rates - if they think muggles just throw bombs," said George. "They have air-o-planes that fly ten times faster than you'd ever get those Firebolts to go, then they shoot rockets from them. Kept Fred up at nights."

"Why, 'cause he thought the muggles would attack?"

"No, he was trying to work out how he could get a hold of one."

"What's a Waverly field?" asked Harry carefully, risking more drills from Hermione.

"That's the green bubbles," said Hermione. "The Ministry is setting up these so-called sanctuaries with this Waverly field protecting them. They are inviting wizarding families to take refuge in them until new wards are in place for areas the muggle government discovered. It's a completely daft response to the situation."

"He is a Thick... nesse."

"It makes no sense! The Ministry does not know how the muggles found the magicked places, so how can they be sure the muggles won't find these sanctuaries? If they have no idea what the muggle government is capable of, then how can they be certain this Waverly field can offer protection?" demanded Hermione.

"Got to be seen to be doing something," recited Harry, remembering.

"Yes, right, fine. But this is like playing hide-and-seek with all of Hogwarts and everyone choosing to hide in the same spot, hoping no one notices the large green bush that suddenly appeared."

"Should we even ask what she is on about?" whispered Ginny.

"It won't work anyway," said George. "Too many wizards too close together - they'll be at each other's throats in three days."

"Didn't the Ministry suspect a traitor before?" asked Harry.

"Yeah, well, the thing about the Prophet is that it's full of words, and they like those words to be different each day," shrugged George. "Mum and Dad have the Fidelius, and the shop has a room, or two, under the floorboards, the kind you can find only if you know they are there, if it comes to anything."

"Ron, didn't you leave a bun for me?" complained Ginny.

"Croissant."

"'Course. Harry ate yours."

"What? You had at least three!"

"Er, hold this, George, while I sort out the children?" asked Hermione. She held out a cup made from paper, which was full of water.

"It's not like using the Floo," muttered George, reaching for the cup. He took it from the girl, and disappeared.

"Come on!" shouted Hermione over the exclamations of surprise and shock. She sprinted ahead for the far side of the warehouse.

v - v - v - v - v

Nona had come with clothes for Gabrielle. In time, Gabrielle noticed, to help with the mid-day meal. The removal of the bandages also removed any protection from the ladle. It seemed that the improved standing that accorded her the breakfast was already gone.

Mostly gone. Things were a little different. First, not that it affected Gabrielle, Anthony had apparently showed up with a load of garlic, which hung in braids from every wall. Then, while it was clear there would be no end to the peeling and chopping, Nona took up a knife as well. A token effort, in Gabrielle's judgement, used as an excuse to teach her the chant that had been used at the crystal ball. Or, at least, Nona taught her how to say the chant, as its meaning remained a mystery. Gabrielle was a little concerned about that at first, but then realized that most incantations were just strange words one memorized. Anyway, there was the stupid ladle to consider if she didn't do it properly.

Once the meal preparations were completed, there was Soleil to tend to. Crossing over to his shelter was dangerous. Gabrielle remembered Stanislaw's ominous words, and planned to give him as little opportunity as possible to exact his revenge. Fortunately, Gabrielle had allies. Pepi-Z, placed carefully on the top of her tent by Poisseux, could warn her if it were not safe to move to her tent. Poisseux, the far more mobile zombie, covered the passage from the tent to Nona's dark little cottage or to Soleil's stall. She just needed to wait long enough for him to plod between the two destinations. Gabrielle found herself apologizing to the Abaraxan colt, who was now acting skittish whenever she made a sudden movement. That would not be very helpful when she had to ride him again. At the same time, though, she was not going to give him extra feed, in case that encouraged this ridiculous behavior. Soleil, for his part, either accepted her apology or gave one of his own in the form of a slobbering lap of his tongue.

Once Soleil's stall was cleaned, with the rake this time, and his bowels reloaded with rations, Gabrielle knew she had to go back to Nona's for more chores. It was hard for her to imagine a more tedious schedule, and it had not even been a week yet. If this was a story, thought Gabrielle, then she would be the secret princess waiting for release. Her prince would come and find her, if it was a story, instead of her waiting for Papa's reply and the hoped-for galleons, so that she could write to her prince and try to convince him to be her prince again. Life, decided Gabrielle, was not quite going the way she had hoped.

After cleaning as much lingering Abraxan off herself as she could, Gabrielle entered the old witch's domicile has quietly as possible. She was good at that, and one time Nona had been napping. Gabrielle found that she could be very patient while waiting for her minder to wake. Today, though, Nona had yet another woman visiting her. That was good for Gabrielle too. It would probably mean a single whack of the ladle and something that roughly translated to 'Go away,' except with less politeness. Gabrielle had only seen women visiting Nona so far. She was curious about that, but there was no point in trying to ask.

Nona, however, had apparently decided to add these sessions to Gabrielle's growing list of chores. She was not dismissed. Instead, a barrrel, which, noted Gabrielle, definitely needed a cushion, was rolled into place at the sturdy, old table for her to use. The guest, or, more likely, customer, looked even older than Nona, with thin, yellow-white hair and so many wrinkles on her face that her eyes and mouth were hard to discern. Her grip was still strong, though, and she had no qualms about Gabrielle being there. That tacit acceptance made things better, but chanting along with Nona was still a little embarrassing. This time Nona simply tugged Gabrielle's hand when she wanted her attention. Gabrielle wondered if she had missed the signal last time.

Nona's black eyes filled with a vision of the crystal ball, which then filled with a confusion of images. There was quite a lot of smoke, or maybe fog, and sudden flashes brighter than the morning light. There were trees, and a stone wall. Gabrielle did not see the man until he moved. He was quickly joined by a second. They were muggles; Gabrielle could tell because they carried soldier rifles. The two men looked to be farmers by the way they were dressed, though, and they crept along the ground just by the stone wall. Gabrielle could not tell if this were the past or present. Trees, stone walls, and farmers always looked the same.

The men moved along the wall slowly, obviously hiding from something or someone. It was not a very interesting vision, really. Hers were much more intense; probably the sensory humours. Eventually the men found a spot they liked, since they stopped and sat with their backs to the wall. It was not a picnic - they had brought no food. No, the two men were hunting, decided Gabrielle. And, they had spotted their prey, since they sprang up and started shooting the rifles. There were flashes from the end of the rifles over and over. Whatever they were hunting, Gabrielle could tell it moved in herds.

One of the men squatted back down to do something with his rifle. He seemed a little younger than the other man, but both had not shaved for a while. The other man suddenly fell back, stumbled really, then fell more to the ground. Some of his head was missing, like that poor witch who had been in the same ward as Gabrielle when she was having her leg healed, after the crup. The witch had claimed it had been a cauldron accident, but it had looked like a giant bite to Gabrielle. There was a lot of blood now, but Gabrielle was used to that. Professor Elevagre often bled freely; Gabrielle thought his morning drink was a blood-replenishment potion. It did not look like muggles had as much blood as wizards did, though. The man who was unhurt put down his rifle and pulled his companion closer. Something landed on the ground just beyond the two men, something gray with a dark handle. The younger man threw himself sideways. The object disappeared with a flash of fire and smoke. When the haze cleared, the man who had been uninjured was now covered in wounds, slumped against the wall, and was hugging his arms to his chest. This, realized Gabrielle, was a muggle war. She had seen a horrible film about it once, while staying with Philippe at the Touliers.

Not much happened for a long while, which made the vision more awful since the wounds looked really bad and there were not going to be any healers for the poor muggles. When some other people did arrive, all the she could see were their boots and gray trousers, and the ends of more rifles. The injured man looked up shakily, said something soundlessly, and one of the rifles spit flame. The vision cut off abruptly.

Returning to the present, Gabrielle found Nona prying at the fingers of her hand that still gripped the old woman's, the fingers of which had gone blue. Gabrielle released the wrinkled digits instantly. "I am sorry!" Gabrielle blurted. She had not noticed at all how tightly she had been holding the old woman's hand - it was an effect of the metric ton. The poor woman looked very shaky, like she might faint. Gabrielle wondered if there was any chance she spoke French. Then she could know that it was not Gabrielle's idea to be there.

Thwock! Okay, thought Gabrielle, rubbing her head, Nona was definitely a witch. Or very, very fast, since there was no other way for her to comfort her guest and whack Gabrielle with the ladle. As if, frowned Gabrielle, it had been her fault at all. A second thought pointed out that Nona would of course blame Gabrielle for any problem when she had a customer. Which was only fair if Gabrielle got something in return, something besides more chores.

Which was not going to happen at the moment. Nona's hissed, "Vendos kazan të,fëmijë." Which meant, probably, that tea was to be made. Gabrielle had learned that because the ladle would stop when she began to do that. It was an unpleasantly annoying, but effective, teaching aid. Gabrielle swung the kettle over the fire. If anyone had asked her, she would have said there had been no fire there a moment before.

Gabrielle stood by the kettle, ready to pour it into the teapot as soon as it was ready. At least, that was what she hoped it looked like. She was listening to the two old women conversing. The word 'fëmijë' was coming up a lot. Gabrielle could hardly follow was being said, but she did recognize some words. There was 'fuqishëm', for example, which meant strong, or hot, or, possibly, awful. Nona usually used it when drinking tea Gabrielle had made. Gabrielle also knew that 'punë' meant chores, or work. She did not like the possible implication, which was that she was being offered up for more manual labor. There were limits, and she was a witch. So was Nona, of course, probably, but Gabrielle had a wand. She had two wands, in fact. If it came to it, well, she would... go to Professor Festeller with a complaint.

v - v - v - v - v

Tea was served with weird little balls of dough Nona made. The old woman who was Nona's visitor regained some of her color, though Gabrielle thought she used too much sugar. Then it was time for Nona to escort her customer out, which meant that Gabrielle had to exit the cottage as well. She checked for Pepi-Z, who she could plainly see perched on the ridge of the tent, and stepped into the path of Stanislaw.

It took a moment for Gabrielle to realize what had happened, and who held her arm. She looked to the top of her tent - Pepi-Z was still there. Why had he not seen this rude oaf? "You are more clever than you look," said Stanislaw calmly. "It took a while to find them." He held up a wire cage with his other hand, a cage that held Poisseux and - Pepi-Z! Poisseux gnawed at the silver wire of the cage with more determination than actual possibility; he was only Spellotape. Pepi-Z rubbed against a bar also. That was just delusional. "I need your help," added her nemesis quickly when she opened her mouth to first protest his comments about how she looked, then his kidnapping her pets.

"Let them go!" demanded Gabrielle. "And, eh, me aussi." Nona was gone; the others in amp were at the stupid hole in the ground.

"Yes, but first you will agree to help?"

"Non. Give me my pets and go away," insisted Gabrielle. "I will, eh, call for Soleil."

"I expected that. He is a glutton, isn't he?" smiled Stanislaw in what Gabrielle decided was an evil way.

"He is not. He is still, eh, growing," argued Gabrielle. She did not like her captor's grin. "What did you do to him?"

"A little sleeping draught - "

"What do you want?" This, decided Gabrielle, is why, wand or not, she would always carry the knife from Gaston. Its strange and sudden appearance, and the close quarters, made it much scarier than the muggle contraption actually was.

"I want you to tell that story you told the girl earlier to a man I am meeting," said Stanislaw. "And tell no one else."

"Eh, what?"

"The expeditions, these are expensive. The equipment, supplies, and authorizations - it is too much for a school. I... help fund... Herr professor's little hobby. In exchange, I provide some of the minor artifacts to buyers," explained Stanislaw in barely more than a whisper. "The story behind such increases its value."

"You heard it already. You can tell him," argued Gabrielle.

"Presentation matters in these transactions. You have clothes that are more... mysterious? Mystic? Ätherisch?"

"Eh, what?" Gabrielle found the tan, muggle blouse covered in pockets very mysterious.

"Perhaps it is these who are the clever ones," said Stanislaw. He held up the cage again. Only Poisseux remained inside; Pepi-Z had apparently squeezed through the bars. They are clever, thought Gabrielle proudly. Eh, wait - "I will find something that will work. Tomorrow, at three o'clock?"

"Eh... yes?" Gabrielle decided to agree, for the moment, since she could plan her escape by then.

"Swear to it with your wand."

"Eh, I will, eh, have to get my wand," lied Gabrielle. Nearly lied. While she had a wand on the ribbon around her neck, there was also the wand with her Grandmere's hair. If she could get to the tent, she could get to her handbag. Then, with Pepi-Z, they could rescue Poisseux, who, while very clever, had obviously overestimated the space between the cage's wires. He was stuck.

"There is the treacherous little one around your neck," reminded the wizard, who had not loosened his grip. Gabrielle frowned. Everyone knew that if one swore on one's wand, then the promise had to be kept, or else. The latter was never very specific, but it had to be bad or why would the oath work? Everyone knew that. If she swore to this now, she would be trapped into aiding Stanislaw's nefarious plot!

What, asked a reasonable second thought, nefarious plot? For all his noxious presence, all the German wizard wanted to do was to help Professor Festeller. Gabrielle did not care about that - in fact, sabotaging the meeting might help end the expedition. Or, force the camp back to the awful stews and her back to a diet of bread and cheese. No, agreeing was, perhaps, considered Gabrielle, the easiest way to get Poisseux back. What Stanislaw asked for was really nothing, and she could have Soleil kick him later. A less reasonable thought recommended that that should be done no matter what - the colt was hers to protect.

"Eh, yes. I.. eh..." Gabrielle decided to not bother lying. Instead she extracted the wand from her blouse with a minimum of digging. Stanislaw drew his wand, an ugly black baton that was too long and too thin, at least in Gabrielle's opinion. He held it out and looked pointedly at Gabrielle. She crossed her wand with his - his had to be at least three times as long. That, judged Gabrielle, was unnatural, and had to mean something.

Stanislaw pulled his wand back, and handed a surprised Gabrielle the caged, wedged toad. "Tomorrow, then." He turned to go.

"That is all?" blurted Gabrielle. She could not but wonder if they had skipped the actual oath part.

"Yes. You know what will happen if you do not do as you agreed."

Gabrielle watched her nemesis walk away. No, she preferred to think of it as slink away. She did not, in fact, know what would happen, and she tried to recall what the agreement was. Retelling the story was part of it. That was very clear, and very specific. The problem, a second thought warned, was the very unclear and very non-specific pledge to help. Almost anything he could think of could be called helping! Well, he - is - evil, added the second thought. Which means, thought Gabrielle forlornly, that I am to be his servant. She wondered if he had a ladle.

v - v - v - v - v

"George," said Hermione pleadingly. "I already said I was sorry." Her quavering voice came from behind a large, rusted skip that sat next to the unfinished building. The deserted construction site was where they had stopped for lunch. "When will this end?"

"We-ell, that's the danger of untried magic, see? Can never be sure of the consequences," said George in a tone that indicated he was still aggrieved.

"It wasn't completely untested!" insisted Hermione. That was followed by short, rising moans.

"Harry, say something to him," called out Ginny. "This is so gross. These shoes are going to be ruined."

"Thank you very much, Ginny. That is so helpful," gasped Hermione.

Harry Potter scrubbed his brow with the heel of his hand. His scar had been acting up all day, and now this. It was not even clear what this was, except that it was a Wheeze that only Ginny was allowed to help with. Harry could not blame George though, as Hermione slipping him her first successful portkey was a rude surprise. She had apologized immediately, of course, but put her foot into it again when she explained why he was the only logical test subject. It had not helped for her to note that she had only nearly gotten it right before with the garden gnomes. "Come on, George. I'm sure Hermione would never - "

"Here's a quick lesson for you Harry," interrupted George. He rocked the twisted metal that gripped Ron with his foot. "Last time Fred and I went up against ickle Ronnikins, all of the hexes and jinxes seemed to slide right off him. Thus the brilliant, if I do say so myself, use of transfiguration in a duel. If you can't be sure you'll hit your opponent with a spell, aim for what's around him." Ron had gone ballistic when whatever it was happened to Hermione. He had paid no attention to the old metal folding chairs among the refuse.

"Yeah, that's a good trick," agreed Harry. It was one to remember. "But we really ought to get moving, and -"

"Have the Mugwump of Magical Transport there do you up one of her specials, then."

"All right, it wasn't the best idea, I think we all agree on that now," tried Harry. Anger was beginning to flare, and his scar was sharply twinging.

"There's a bloody understatement."

"But this isn't really helping." The scar ached, forcing a squint.

"I feel better."

"Mm-I kack imm ivo!" said Ron, as clearly as was possible with the arms of the chair holding his jaws and filling his mouth. It was, thought Harry, a really rather amazing bit of transfiguration. There might be something to that Tower of the Mind thing. He wished he had that bastard Snape's book. The Tower might help with his damned scar, which burned painfully and sent bright flashes across his vision...

A man hung in the air, limbs stretched widely. The man was old, with long white hair hanging limply with sweat and a bushy beard to match. He was also in obvious pain. "The Wand," said a soft, high voice that was at the same time very cold. "The Wand of Destiny. Give it to me, Gregorovitch." The dangling man's arms and legs stretched further, pulling away from his torso. He groaned, then screamed as an overstretched joint gave a sickening pop.

"I don't have it! It was stolen from me!" hissed the wandmaker through his pain.

"Who?" came the cold voice. The sound of the voice and the malice it was able to project were jarring. The limbs, momentarily slack, jerked out again.

"I don't know! I never knew!" protested the old man until the stretching left him unable to do more than cry out.

"Lord Voldemort will know." There was another wrenching crack from the tortured limbs, but the old man was beyond screaming, staring out wide-eyed. The eyes seemed to grow larger and larger, until the dark pupils were all there was to see. Then there was another man to see, young and lithe, with long blond hair. He sat perched on a window sill, waving a wand tauntingly before disappearing backwards just before a curse smashed the window's frame.

Suddenly the old man, sagging even as his arms and legs were taut, was back. "Never knew, Gregorovitch? You can not lie. Lord Voldemort knows. He always knows," said the Dark Lord with an odd note of childish glee. The trapped limbs splayed out further, and there was a moment of unnatural tension before things went, literally, to pieces.

"Come again?" asked George.

"What?"

"You said 'Give it to me, Gregorovitch,'"

"It's Voldemort! He's killed - I think he killed the wandmaker Gregorovitch. Voldemort is after something called the Wand of Destiny," described Harry in a rush, before he could forget any details.

"The Wand of Destiny?" asked George dubiously.

"Yeah, he's going to -"

"Not going to, he's gone - gone round the bend," said George derisively. "The Wand of Destiny is from a story book for children, not something real."

"Mit nea-ee mmm-in moo met," complained Ron.

"Oh, all right. The next bit should be good for a laugh, anyway," said George. A tap of his wand removed the metal from Ron's mouth. The trapped sibling worked his mouth for a moment, spat, then opened his mouth again. George was ready, and tipped a small packet of white powder into the gaping orifice, then used his wand to close Ron's mouth. "Swallow it down, brother, yes, who's a good Ronikins, is he?" cooed George. "That's the counter; all you have to do is..." Here George leaned in and whispered something. Ron's ears and neck turned red. The restraining metal bent away. "Off you go, Romeo."

Ron got to his feet and gave his brother a wink, "Think you're always so smart?" He headed toward the protective skip. George's grin faded.

"What do you mean the Wand of Destiny isn't real?" asked Harry.

George shook himself. "I meant just that. The legendary Wand of Destiny, the mythical Death Stick, the Elder Wand of the story that can defeat Death himself - legend, myth, story. Ergo , not real. If the Dark Duffer is after that then he's had too many billywig stingers."

"Ron, she doesn't need you - What are you doing? Oh, for Merlin's sake, put that away! Hermione!" shouted Ginny. She came from the far side of the skip, shielding her eyes. "I'm scarred for life now. Is it possible to Scourgify your eyes?"

There was a yodelling howl from the other side of the rusting metal shielding the couple, followed by a spluttering cough. "Point it away, Ron!"

"Still a few surprises left," said George, though he looked like someone trying to work out how the sums had gone wrong. "Fred says the Eromaxxx pranks wear off by themselves. This part is just for the fireworks."

"Ero-what?"

"If you thought you could embarrass those two, then you're an even worse chaperon than I thought," said Ginny.

"I - wait, what do you mean by that?" asked George.

"Nothing," said Ginny, flashing a grin herself.

v - v - v - v - v

The day for Gabrielle had improved when the owl had arrived. Not that the owl itself, a huge, brutish specimen, had anything to do with that. Gabrielle had never met such an impatient bird before. Never mind waiting for a reply, it barely let her undo the twine from its leg before flapping off. As if nipping at her fingers would make the task easier! Gabrielle was left with a carefully wrapped package, addressed in her mother's handwriting. It clinked enticingly; Papa was very generous. Not generous to fill a whole box that size with galleons, though. Gabrielle could not suppress the dream that a package from George was included. He does write, hoped Gabrielle, even after her faux pas.

No matter how tantalizing the potential contents were, however, they had to wait until the dinner preparations were complete. Wandering speculation, and therefore attention, left Gabrielle's hands covered in the gross white poultices and her head lumpy from the ladle. She did not bother to try and explain why she was so distracted to Nona, of course. Even if Gabrielle could have, she would not have, as the old crone actually snickered at her difficulties.

Soleil turned out to be fine, if somewhat unsteady on his feet. The metal footwear had definitely been needed. Gabrielle lambasted the colt for his stupid greediness. She expected to have to repeat herself in the morning, since Soleil's only response was to try and eat her skirt. Gabrielle had won the tug-of-war with the Abraxan, but there was a tear across nearly the whole of the front, and it sagged, showing things that shouldn't be showing. She would have to ask Abby for help in fixing the garment. If the damage had been small, Gabrielle would try to mend it on her own, even resorting to the muggle methods she had used before.

The final chore, after changing into the last of Maman's skirts and before retreating to the privacy of her bed, was to endure another tour of the fallen tower. The wreckage of the hole had been transfigured into a convenient staircase, which led down to the chamber Professor Festeller had been so excited by. Nothing stood out from the previous rubble to Gabrielle's eyes, except for the large stone box on the wall. Which, of course, used to be a floor. The stone of the box was crudely formed, without decoration. The fact that it was halfway up the wall meant it was fused with or made from the former floor. Three corroded copper bands stretched across the top of the box. The size, large enough to be a bed, was not notable to Gabrielle until the Professor asserted that it might be the crypt of the First Master of Time. He pointed out the symbols on the bands, which were representations of hour-glasses. Gabrielle nodded politely, but it was hard to see much in the crusted corrosion. The marks could have just as easily been butterflies. Festeller announced that they would open the crypt tomorrow. Gabrielle decided that tomorrow Soleil would need careful monitoring, in his stall, after Stanislaw's treachery.

It was in the bed, later, with its extra privacy afforded by the borrowed, buttressing mattresses, that Gabrielle confronted the cruel realities of the world. Papa, thought Gabrielle, had been more suspicious of her request than generous in responding to it. Had she been so obvious? There was only a handful of sickles more than the cost of a single International Post Owl. Most of the coins were the weird round ones used by muggles, denominated in 'leks'. What was she to do with those? Shop for souvenirs? The unpleasant owl that had brought the package had not waited, which meant that her meager supply of funds would be spent asking for more.

Worse, the larger part of the package was someting from Monique. Which was not bad by itself, of course, just that it was not something from George, or even Fred. She was not forgiven. Monique's unexpected package was wrapped in oak leaves that had been stitched together with the thin stems of some plant. The leaves hid a box, which was made from bark and twigs. Monique, worried Gabrielle, seemed to have a lot of time on her hands. That probably meant her friend had not fully recovered yet, and was being kept close. Inside the box was a simple dress made from broad leaves stitched together and decorated with a few dried flowers. According to the letter also inside the box, the leaves were a type of borage, the stitching vine tendrils. Monique recommended wearing it constantly so that the moisture from one's body would keep it fresh, though she admitted that the charm her mother had taught her helped a lot. It was clear to Gabrielle that Monique would have a tough sixth year ahead. Especially if the clothes she wore were prone to spontaneous disassembly. Gabrielle could imagine the boys watching carefully for signs of an approaching autumn. Monique also wrote that she hoped that Gabrielle would teach her her way with animals. Gabrielle was not sure what that meant - would Monique even wear metal shoes? She decided that what her best friend really wanted was more time with the unicorn. Impy would probably eat Monique's dresses though, and she would probably let him!

There was a postcard from Silvain. Another unexpected correspondence. It showed Icelandic elves playing by a geyser. They looked a lot like garden gnomes to Gabrielle, just better dressed in colorful tunics. Silvain wrote that he hoped she was having a good summer. That was stupid. Did he not know that she was on this ridiculous expedition? That he wrote at all was a little puzzling too; she had put him into a toilet. Of course, the real issue was that she had built up her hopes that it would be George writing her.

Which, Gabrielle had to admit, was her own fault. She had wronged him, not the reverse. She would have to apologize. Gabrielle had known that, of course. She had tried to send such earlier. Now she would write a proper apology, instead of writing 'I am sorry' multiple times with a plea for him to respond. That first effort had been rushed and childish. Desperate, criticized a nasty thought. What was needed was a more mature, sophisticated approach. But not subtle, decided Gabrielle, remembering the weather report from Britain. George and Fred were not subtle, or rather, not interested in subtlety. Metaphor and allusion would likely be lost here.

Lost was an idea that Gabrielle did not want to even think about. If George could forget the name of a girl he had been dating, he might forget the incident that caused this rift. The question was whether he would forget what had happened before he forgot her as well. Gabrielle realized that she was staring at a piece of parchment that would soon have the most important thing she had ever written on it. The love of her life and her future happiness depended entirely on how well she conveyed her thoughts, her heart, onto this blank sheet. It had to be perfect. Gabrielle carefully cleaned the nib of her quill, checked the ink for lumps,and took a deep breath. She wrote, 'Dear George.'

That was still all Gabrielle had managed, unless one counted the letter 'I' crossed out three times, when Nona arrived some time later.


	14. Look Good, See Good

Chapter Fourteen - Look Good, See Good

Gabrielle looked at Nona in surprise. Not so much surprise that the old woman was in the tent; Gabrielle suspected that Nona had been in before. The overflow of garlic was evidence of that. The braided bulbs had been moved to the de-Abraxan-ation chamber, an unused suite several doors away where Gabrielle would leave the metal galoshes and whatever clothing needed airing, or, if Soleil had been very affectionate, drying. The surprise was that she had not heard Nona's approach. The animal heads overlooking the common room were usually very noisy. Even at night there would be grunts and growls as Gabrielle went past, or snapping if she got close.

"Ejani," commanded Nona, before she paused. The old witch then tried a smile before continuing in a much softer tone, "Unë dua një nder nga ju, fëmijë." She held out a hand. The hairs prickled on the back of Gabrielle's neck.

"Eh, what is it?" asked Gabrielle. She did not get up. Nona had never needed her after the evening meal was finished. It could not be chores, otherwise the ladle would be used.

"Të ndihmuar një grua e vjetër," said Nona. The message was cryptic. The tone was half request, half command. She beckoned Gabrielle. Where, wondered Gabrielle, was the ladle?

"I need to dress," said Gabrielle, acquiescing. What else could she do? She waited a pointed moment, then sighed when it was obvious that Nona had no intention of giving her privacy. Gabrielle recalled her earlier suspicions. "I, eh, have to stay with the Professor's expedition. You know this." The pronouncement had no effect on the old woman, so Gabrielle finished getting ready to leave, which included wearing the necklace of ribbon which held her real wand. Since the last of Maman's skirts was several suites away, Gabrielle pulled on her denims, which fit more snugly than she remembered. Into a pocket went the knife from Gaston, just in case. There was no room for Poisseux, so Gabrielle decided to leave both pets behind. They had had a trying day.

Nona led the way back to the little cottage. From the other side of the clearing came the sounds of laughter and hooting, though Gabrielle could not see past the other tents. She would have to count Soleil's bottles again!

Inside the single room of the tiny home was the old woman who had been there in the afternoon. She slowly got to her feet when Gabrielle and Nona entered. With her was another woman, who was much younger. She remained seated, in an armchair that Gabrielle recognized as coming from the common room of her tent. Nona, realized Gabrielle, could be very quiet also. The sight of the chairs the two women used, in Nona's cottage, was a cause for concern for Gabrielle. There was probably a jinx on them, or worse, a deposit, and Gabrielle decided that she was not going to bear the consequences for their loss. However, she could hardly say anything now; the old woman was finished greeting Nona and was speaking to her. Gabrielle smiled politely at her, not understanding a word. The old woman smoothed Gabrielle's hair once. It was a gesture only the elderly could get away with. At least she had not been patted like a dog.

Nona motioned the old woman and Gabrielle to the table, before busying herself with a wooden chest in a corner. The borrowed chairs meant Gabrielle sat in one of the home's wooden chairs instead of on a barrel. It was not that much more comfortable. The table was now covered in a dark blue tablecloth, much finer than the rest of the decor. The younger woman looked at Gabrielle and asked, "Ju nuk flasin shqip?" Gabrielle tried to look as if she had not heard. She was tired of smiling blankly. "(You speak English?)" tried the younger woman.

"(Eh, yes. I speak English,)" replied Gabrielle.

"(I am Kaltrina Krasniqi. This is my mother,)" said the younger of the two, nodding to the other.

"(I am pleased to meet you,)" said Gabrielle out of polite habit. "(My name is Gabrielle Delacour.)"

"(You are student of the Nona, but you do not speak Albanian?)"

"(Eh, what? No. I, eh, am a student, yes, but I only help Nona wizz ze chores,)" explained Gabrielle.

"(My mother, she believes, still, in witches. She believes in the Nona. Tell me, child, what does it cost?)"

"(Eh, cost?)" repeated Gabrielle. The thought of Nona preying on gullible or Confunded muggles had occurred to her before.

Kaltrina smiled thinly. "(The future is very expensive. There have been others -)"

"(I only - See - ze past,)" said Gabrielle quickly. She was not going to be blamed for something Nona had done. A second thought considered the phrase 'the Nona'.

Kaltrina said nothing for a moment. Behind her, Nona was setting out candles. "(My mother... You showed the Nazis killing her brother. How can this be? My mother has little enough, and now for spirits?)"

"(Eh...)" Gabrielle struggled to understand. Nona's customers were her business, she thought, why not ask the old witch directly?

"(You do not know? You are not the miracle medium? It is a trick.)"

"(I, eh, I... will make ze tea,)" announced Gabrielle. She stood up. After making the tea, she would run. Hiding with Soleil was useless; he was afraid of Nona. The tent was also not safe. But Nona was old, and Gabrielle was used to moving in heavy iron footwear.

Thwock! "Ju jeni të ulur , fëmijë , dhe të bëjnë veten të qetë ." It was Nona, suspiciously ladle-free. The room had darkened noticeably as the lantern light was replaced by candlelight. The fire in the hearth was just glowing coals.

"That is so annoying," groused Gabrielle in what might as well have been her own private language. She sat back down; tea was not needed. Madame Krasniqi smiled at her once again and held out her bony, wrinkled hand. A different hand than she had in the afternoon. Gabrielle hoped she had not been hurt.

"(You are to hold her hand,)" prompted Kaltrina. "(Then the theatre can begin.)"

"(I know zat!)" huffed Gabrielle. She gently clasped the old woman's hand, wary of the metric ton.

"(And mine.)"

Gabrielle swallowed any reply. What was the point of arguing? Nona sat down opposite to Gabrielle, and slid a rather nicer crystal ball to the center of the table. The clear globe sat on a gold metal base, cast to look like cherubic angels holding it with their wings. Or fat fairies; the sculpting was not that good. The distraction gave Gabrielle a chance to try and become invisible without anyone interrupting by asking her if she felt all right. When the accusations flew later, they would, perhaps, not notice her.

Nona began a soft chant, and Gabrielle joined in before realizing it was a different one than what she had learned. That was the opposite of being invisible, and Gabrielle felt herself redden when the mother and daughter turned to look at her. Nona kept up the rhythm, though, and Gabrielle was able to echo her after several repetitions. With the fire damped, the room felt cold. Madame Krasniqi stared eagerly at the crystal ball; her daughter kept an eye on Nona. Gabrielle wondered how she would know when Nona wanted her attention. She was not holding the crone's hand, and Nona was too far away to nudge her. It would probably be the ladle. Gabrielle felt a shiver run through her. Was Nona doing that?

The crystal ball seemed to fill with a mist, and gleamed dully, as if moonlight was coming from inside. Gabrielle stared at it, and wondered what Kaltrina thought of it. She shuddered again. No one else, noticed Gabrielle, was so affected by the cold, not even the ancient Madame Krasniqi. This was magic, decided Gabrielle, or she was coming down with the Grippe. Was this the signal from Nona? If it was, then it was too much. She could not feel her hands, and it felt like there was a yeti behind her, breathing an icy chill down her neck. Gabrielle raised her head to look, well, to glare at Nona, and found herself speaking...

"[Trina. Mother. Is my work never done?]" asked Gabrielle in perfect Albanian.

"[Of course, Armend - had you the sense to do it right the first time,]" replied Madame Krasniqi. Kaltrina looked on sceptically.

"[I doubt that I will be able to set it right now,]" said Gabrielle cheerfully.

"[What did you learn on your wedding night?]" blurted Kaltrina.

Gabrielle sent her a withering glare, then turned to face the elder Krasniqi sternly. "[I learned that Shpend Duka was a damned liar and the rest is not your business at all, girl.]" And they wonder, thought Gabrielle, why I drink. A pipefull would help too. Mother could never tolerate the smoke for long. "[I won't ask why you know to ask.]" A small thought in the back of her mind struggled to understand. What?

The old woman raised her chin. "[Kaltrina has three children of her own. Have you forgotten? She is no blushing bride.]"

"[Be it made as that,]" shrugged Gabrielle.

Kaltrina's mouth opened in surprise. "[Da would say that!]"

"[I still say it,]" snapped Gabrielle, still feeling aggrieved.

"[Never could get it right. The Swiss account, Armend. What of the Swiss account?]" queried Madame Krasniqi.

Gabrielle's face shuttered. "[Swiss account? What -]"

"[Did you forget I could read as well as clean? Armend, the Sigurimi are gone. You are beyond their reach anyway,]" soothed Madame Krasniqi before pausing. "[You - are - safe from them, yes?]" she asked with concern.

"[You bring nothing here but what you have done.]" The words made Gabrielle feel heavier, but she could tug at the hand held by Kaltrina. The woman's grip tightened at Nona's nudge. "[Just the money, Edona?]"

"[The grandchildren, they wish to study in America. This will be the reason for what you did. What is the account number?]" asked Madame Krasniqi.

"[I doubt I can recall it,]" said Gabrielle sadly. She could use a drink, if only out of habit. It was not the money, not the graft, but who had borne the cost.

"[The dead can remember everything, even that which they wish to forget.]" Nona's voice was low, but sharp. The words made the feeling of heaviness come back, but also distracted the younger woman. Gabrielle twisted her hand free.

As she recited a series of numbers, Gabrielle's freed hand felt for her pipe. It was always in her jacket pocket, but, strangely, she did not seem to have either pocket or jacket. This was not her office, so there was no point in checking for the bottle. I know, came an innocent thought, where there is whiskey. She preferred vodka, but that would do if there was enough of it.

Kaltrina jotted the numbers down, now that she had a hand to use. Gabrielle decided to follow the thought in her head that promised an alcoholic embrace. She stood up as suddenly as she could manage with the weight of her guilt dragging at her, and pulled herself loose. Gabrielle turned, and fell.

Great, thought Gabrielle, when finally free of the overbearing presence, I can not move. She was stiff from the cold and had trouble working out where her feet were. The desperate thoughts urging her to run, while entirely agreeable and correct, might has well have been demanding that she fly. A slow crawl, at least away from the table if not towards the door, was what she could manage.

Too slow. "Koha për të pushuar , fëmijë," said Nona. Gabrielle was lifted up by the old witch's wiry arms, then settled into the rocking chair. The woolen blanket was draped over her. Gabrielle still wanted to run, to escape, but decided that she could wait until the warmth of the blanket gave her back some speed.

v - v - v - v - v

"Zgjohu , fëmijë." The clear voice came from the white squirrel that scampered after Gabrielle. Which was scary, since she was soaring on a golden broom high above the ground below. Gabrielle turned to look back at the squirrel and saw the creature's huge dark eyes. It startled her, and she fell. The fence, posts topped with sharpened finials, rushed up toward her.

Gabrielle jerked awake, stretched, and opened her eyes. She was not in her tent; she was still in Nona's chair. The owner of the cottage was cracking eggs into the cauldron, and actually humming to herself. A large pile of potatoes sat on the table, next to a pile of onions nearly as high. Gabrielle sighed, slid from the rocking chair, and shuffled sullenly over to the table. This was the worst summer ever, thought Gabrielle morosely. She moved to pick up the sharp, heavy knife -

Nona's wrinkled hand pinned the blade to the table. The other hand held Gabrielle's collar and pulled her up out of the chair. "I am sorry!" blurted Gabrielle, mostly because these situations usually called for such. Nona led her around to the other wooden chair on the opposite side of the table.

"Të jetë ende," said Nona firmly. The old witch moved back around the table to sit. She began to cut the potatoes into small cubes. Gabrielle watched warily. She did notice that Nona seemed able to dice a potato with a single knife motion. Which, thought Gabrielle, would be a cool skill to learn provided no one knew about it, because if others did know of it, then she would have to use it. A lot. Gabrielle decided that she would rather learn how to charm a knife. Properly. Not like the first time. At all.

After cutting several of the tubers and scraping the pieces into a bowl, Nona reached down and set her regular, less ornate crystal ball onto the table. She then slid it purposefully to Gabrielle. "Ku është se tradhtoj Anthony?"

The oft-uttered declaration, that she did not understand, almost came from Gabrielle's lips. This time, however, a quicker thought stopped her. And, probably, the ladle as well. Nona's question was about Anthony, and she had been given the crystal ball. It was obvious what she was expected to do. It was also obvious that the old witch would not help, since she had gone back to cutting vegetables. That, Gabrielle could see, led to the obvious conclusion: she would fail and get whacked in the head with the ladle. "Eh, I will, eh, wash first, and see to Soleil," declared Gabrielle. That was not, she judged, an unreasonable excuse. Gabrielle stood up.

Thwock. Gabrielle sat back down. This could be, thought Gabrielle, the worst day of the worst summer, because she remembered that Stanislaw would come for her too. She stared at the transparent globe. At Beauxbatons, Gabrielle had always looked forward to the chance to use Madame Sombrevoir's magnificent ball in class. There never seemed to be enough opportunities. Here in the spare, little cottage, in only a few days, she was tired of even the sight of the orb. A second thought advised that appearing to try might help prevent excessive ladling. Which, to Gabrielle, meant chanting softly, quietly staring, and trying to be invisible. A real effort would require something of Anthony's, like an article of clothing. Gabrielle tried to remember if she had noticed any... aroma from him.

The chanting did seem to satisfy Nona, and she continued cutting the potatoes. Gabrielle found that her hands were feeling restless, itchy. She sat on them at first, to keep them still. It had not helped. Then Gabrielle realized why her hands felt at loose ends: they were loose ends. She had become used to holding another's hand when Nona was using the crystal. That was not going to happen this time, unless she wanted to risk getting her fingers diced. She would have to hold her own hands, which took a bit of experimenting to find a posture that felt right.

Eventually, the tedious efforts produced a hazy fog in the glass, which resolved into a fuzzy image of a field, looking down long rows of mounded dirt. A muggle vehicle, belching black smoke, slowly made its way toward Gabrielle's point of view. The mechanical thing was dragging metal blades through the earth as it moved, scooping up -

Thwock! The crystal cleared and Gabrielle rubbed her head; invisibility continued to elude her. That was not fair. There had been an image! Yes, thought Gabrielle, it might have been the potatoes, or the onions, but it was also possible that Anthony could have been inside the muggle tractor. Anyway, she was grounded in the sensory humours - if she were to See Anthony, then she would need a guidepost to the Hidden Realm. "Përsëri," commanded Nona. Gabrielle frowned. The old hag did not understand the problem.

The next hour was like a nightmare. Visions of farms, fields, and caged chickens were rejected by the ladle. It reached a low when Nona began cooking sausage, and Gabrielle watched the pig make its bloody way to breakfast. That too was rejected, and Gabrielle was so angry and frustrated by then that she was crying. Her head hurt as well, either from the prolonged concentration or the ladle. There was no sympathy for her though, not in the horrid little cottage in miserable Albania, not from her awful taskmaster. Gabrielle could not even see what the crystal ball showed next through the tears, and did not care. The ladle rang out its judgement.

The end finally came with a dim image of a tall blond man being ignored by a very pretty woman with long, curly black hair. It seemed to be Anthony. Gabrielle could not see his face, but the awkward way he moved as he trailed after the young woman was a clue. Of course, the lack of a blow from the dreaded kitchen utensil was a bigger clue. Gabrielle could not hold onto the vision long, and it faded very quickly. She risked a glance at her evil tormentor. Nona was coming back to the table. Gabrielle suspected that she was probably wanting to know why the ladle had stopped before Gabrielle had been rendered unconscious. Instead, Nona swept up the glass and set it aside. Then she drew out a medallion of some sort on a thin chain, and held it out. Gabrielle bent her head forward. As the medallion spun, Gabrielle could see that it was very ugly. It was a flat, roundish coin of dark brown, corroded-looking metal, with nothing decorating either side except for the pitting of decay. The disk looked a lot like it had spent its time on the floor of an Abraxan stall. Nona placed it around her neck. "Sempre."

That was Italian, not Albanian, and close enough to Latin that Gabrielle understood. At least, she understood the words, if not the intention. There was no need to argue though, when escape was so close. Gabrielle nodded, and started to move to the door. When no move was made to stop her, she hurried for freedom, only a little unsteadily. A hot shower, especially after the pig, would be wonderful. First, though, would be Soleil.

v - v - v - v - v

"This map's ruddy useless!"

"No, it isn't, Ron, if you are paying attention," argued Hermione. She stretched out her legs, digging her toes into the sand. The small waves hissed ashore. A large, conspicuous, yet unnoticed gap in the sunning crowd encircled the blanket.

"Me? The bloody map should! What good is it if it don't show you where you are?" asked Ron with a flapping of the offending item.

"Muggle maps don't do that, and put your wand away. You'll burn a hole in another one," warned Hermione.

"Why can't we have a proper map?"

"We wanted one with roads that actually exist marked on it."

"Well this don't look like the Ardennes," noted Ron with furrowed brow.

"It's the Mediterranean, you thick troll!" burst Ginny. "The Coast O'Sure!"

"Oh, leave it be, Ginny," said Harry. The warm sun and sand was making him very relaxed.

"Hmmph!" Ginny dropped into the sand next to him, and laid her head on Harry's stomach with decidedly more force than necessary. "I'm getting sand in my knickers."

"Uhff." That would explain a lot, thought Harry. He could not say that, though, nor offer to help. The Tower of the Mind. "So, George, erm, where do we go from here?" asked Harry.

"Do you know, I thought we were heading for the Ardennes too?"

"What?"

"Bloody hell! Let me burn it."

"Ron!"

"Just kidding," said George. "We've got a couple of options. We could find a fishing boat to take us around Italy, for instance. Might take a week. Or we could fly."

"Any of those nuddy beaches around?" asked Ron hopefully.

"What? Ginny! You didn't, did you?" demanded Hermione.

"Why can't we just drive?" suggested Harry. It was expensive, but it was easy to hide among the muggles.

"Ministry types are the same everywhere; very touchy about the edges of things," shrugged George. "There's a lot of boundaries to cross. The unusual provenance of our trusty steed might be a problem too."

"You mean the fact that it's stolen?" asked Ginny.

"It's borrowed, sweet sister, at least until the aurors find out. Anyway, I'll get it back to... Hmm. Well, it'll be left nearby. Besides, there's mountains to cross and the ol' 2CV might not be up to it." George produced a small metal beetle-shape from a pocket, and examined what was beneath a wing.

"We should fly," declared Hermione.

"Be there in two days if we did," commented George.

"Really? You'll be all right up there?" asked Harry.

"Up," snickered Ginny.

"Yes. Ron and I have been training hard and - " began Hermione.

"Hard training," snorted Ginny.

" - and a long flight won't - "

"Long, hard training!" guffawed Ginny. "Long - and - hard, I'm -"

"Levicorpus!" snapped Hermione.

"Hey!" gasped Ginny, hanging upside down.

"Er, the muggles..."

"Liberacorpus," said Hermione, dropping Ginny into the surf with a sweep of her wand.

Ginny staggered upright, started forward, and lost her footing when a wave caught her from behind. She got back up red in the face. This, thought Harry, will end badly, especially since he could see the youngest Weasley's wand was already out. "We should get back to the car," he urged.

"Give us another moment, will you?" said George, looking at the faux insect again.

"Wait, Ginny! I'm sorry! Ugh -no! get off, you're soaking wet!"

"Am I now? Who's bloody fault is that?"

"What is that, George?" inquired Harry, ignoring tussle behind him.

"Ow! That hurt, Ginny. I said I was - What are you doing? Ron! Help me!"

"It's a twit-o-meter. Goes off whenever a champion twit is - Oh, hello there, Fred," nodded George. "Thought it was you. And Verity! You're looking very pink very all over."

"Cheers, mate. Mine went off scale when we started in this direction," greeted Fred. "Surprised it didn't explode," he added looking past Harry and his brother.

"Aargh! If you want help, then stop kicking!" complained Ron.

"Where do you keep it?" asked Harry. The very continental swimsuit Fred wore looked two sizes too small. He tried not to look at Verity, because Ginny would probably kill him. She was pink from too much sun, in a lot of places that normally only hear about the sun from distant relations.

"Ron - what are you doing? Get your hand out!"

"I'm trying to get the sand out!"

"Cor, do they ever stop?" asked Fred.

"Only when it's time to eat. I can tell you've been here a while," said George, tilting his head toward Verity.

"Yeah, we got here in the morning -"

"To see the nereids!" injected Verity brightly.

"Yeah, the nereids. Been getting a bit of sun, having a kip," continued Fred.

"Long night then, eh? Eh?" winked George.

"Sun is good for vitamin D," declared Verity. "That's good for his energy."

"Well now, this vitamin D. Is it red? 'Cuz you look about full up," said George.

"I thought vitamin D was for bones," commented Harry.

"I'm sure more energy and more bone are exactly what Fred has been needing," smirked George. Fred gave him a rude gesture, which made Verity gasp and pull his arm down.

Ginny came and sat next to Harry. Sand clung to her wet skin and clothes in a fine layer. "I hate the beach."

"I hate the sand," added Hermione, flapping the leg of her slacks so the that the grit tumbled out.

"Sorry about that," apologized Ginny in a mutter. She suddenly noticed that she was level with Fred's under-sized beach attire. "Fer Merlin's sake, are you trying to burn my eyes too?" Ginny held a hand up to shield her face.

"You like? Verity picked it out for me," explained Fred, striking a pose.

"Might've tried it on for size before leaving the shop..."

"Am I right that you picked out hers, then?" asked Hermione.

"It's French!" gushed Verity. The blond twisted back and forth, as if there was not even less suit in the back.

"When do you go back and get the rest?" asked Ginny. "I can see your whole bum!"

"You're burned to a crisp, Verity. You really should get out of the sun," advised Hermione. "Especially considering where you are burned."

"I like it," decided Ron. "Where did you get it from?"

"It wouldn't fit you. The top would be all saggy," noted George.

"If we're going to be at the seaside, then, then we should dress for it, right?" asked Ron. "Blend in, you see."

"Yeah, absolutely. Ron's right," agreed Harry. Ginny would look fantastic in that bikini, thought Harry. She might need help with lotion too. "I'm sure there's a shop nearby..."

"It's a healthy glow," asserted Verity, poking at the skin on her arm.

"A few hours ago it was a healthy glow. Now it's closer to crusty blister," warned Hermione.

"Sit down, Harry. We don't need suits," said Ginny. "And wipe that drool."

"So there - is - a nuddy beach around here!"

"Shut up, Ron."

"Squidgums, what do you think?" asked Verity to Fred.

"Let's have a look," said Fred with concern. He hooked a finger into her bottoms and pulled them open, drawing an indignant gasp in a feminine pitch. "Ooh, might have left it a bit long."

"Squidgums?" whispered Ron.

"But we have the flat for two more days!" moaned Verity. "I don't want to sit inside for the rest of the time here!" She turned a glare on Fred. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I did suggest that we go back to the flat," replied Fred calmly. "You told me to bugger off."

"That's because I thought you just wanted to - um... You should have told me it was for my skin!" berated Verity. "And I never say bugger!"

"Yes, dear. Never, except for just then and earlier," agreed Fred with a facetious grin. "What's wrong with a nice um before tea?"

"Well, nothing, I suppose, especially if you - We can't even do that now with me like this! Our hon- er - is ruined now because of you!" raged the blond.

"Because of me?" mocked Fred. "Who's idea of fun is - "

"You're doing it wrong, Squidgums," interrupted George. Fred whirled to face him, but George was already winking. They studied each other for a moment.

"We're not that far from Chamoix," said a suddenly cheerful Fred. "I can pop over to the apothecary there and get something to fix you right up, and a nice herbal soak for the tub. All right?"

"Oh. Well, yes, all right," replied Verity somewhat sheepishly. "Can... can you look for French herbs?"

"Of course. It'll full of de la's and du's. Now get your cover-up, and see about getting a hat. A, ha, french hat," smiled Fred earnestly.

"Her cauldron's short one leg," opined Ron, watching Verity move off. "Barkin' mad."

"What are you two planning?" asked Hermione in a warning tone. She was not as fascinated by the sight of Verity's pink wobbly bits walking away, and saw the twins conferring. Innocent smiles were all she got back.

"You'd have to be barmy to even imagine marrying either of these delinquents," said Ginny.

v - v - v - v - v

Gabrielle reminded Soleil, again, that his exercise time was up. The big colt was not tired, of course, but the others would remain hidden indoors, if they were at the camp, until Soleil was once again secured in his stall. Part of the reason for this was the incident when the Abraxan first arrived with Professor Elevagre. A larger part was that flying around in circles was very boring; Gabrielle encouraged the animal to swoop and dive, which was much more fun. She was always amazed at how suddenly the huge beast could pull out of a plummet with just a single stretch of his wings. The flights were very disruptive to the camp's activities, though no one had ever requested that they stop.

Gabrielle wondered if that was because they thought that she was barely in control of the Abraxan. She was tied to Soleil by the tether and harness, which she now wore backwards so that she could get out of it by herself, though it was even less comfortable that way, and she did not use the reins. Gabrielle did not bother with the saddle for such short flights either. That might, she realized, give the unobservant onlooker the impression that she was only along for the ride. While it looked like Gabrielle was clinging to the mane for dear life and flailing her arm, she was, yes, using the mane to stay on Soleil's back, but was also pointing out the direction he should take. It only looked like flailing because of the very dynamic flight path.

There was a trick Gabrielle used when Soleil was being stubborn about landing. She simply stood up on the Abraxan's wide back. Most times he would immediately level out his flight and lose altitude; he was such a worrier. If he still did not notice, Gabrielle would put a hand on his halter and dangle way out standing on his withers. That would get Soleil on the ground in moments. It was a ridiculous reaction, in Gabrielle's opinion. The colt could see the tether.

The exercise flights were normally taken after Gabrielle had finished helping with the mid-day meal preparations. Gabrielle was very, very relieved that today Nona had no visitors and that the crystal ball stayed hidden. It said a lot about her summer holiday when only dealing with mounds of cabbage was consider an improvement. Once Soleil was back in his stall, and fed, watered, and brushed, brushed, brushed, Gabrielle had a couple of hours to herself. Usually these were spent laying on her stomach on her bed wondering what kinds of fun her friends were having.

Usually. As Gabrielle left the Abraxan's stall, smoothing her hair where Soleil had shown his appreciation by slobbering, she encountered two creatures. One was avian; an owl, clutching several envelopes. The other was malevolent; it was Stanislaw, who led a parade of floating packages. She stopped, half-turned, wondering if the owl would follow her into Soleil's stall, and if she could stop Soleil from eating her post. It might be better to risk a return to Nona's cottage. Everyone gave her as wide a berth as the Abraxan. Except when it was time to eat.

The owl took the initiative, dove for her, and released its burden as it pulled up. The bird landed on Gabrielle's shoulder. The envelopes hit her in the chest, and landed on the ground. She had to bend at the knees to recover them, because if she leaned too far forward the owl would flap its wings and tighten its talons. The smaller envelope was from Philippe. She could tell, besides by looking at the return address, because he used several different colors of ink, and the precise lettering meant that he had used that mechanical printing thing. The second letter made her wobble. No return address, but the handwriting was one she had memorized - it was from George! Or Fred, warned a cautious, but ignored, thought. She stared at the folded parchment in shock. He did write - he does write. Was she forgiven? What did it mean? Her stomach was beginning to hurt. Perhaps George had not recognized her after all during the scrying. It must mean something. More importantly, the owl was waiting for a reply. Interestingly, noted a second thought, was that though it was an International Post owl, it was a French International Post owl. The postmark read Paris. Gabrielle turned toward her tent. Suddenly, the owl gave a loud, indignant screech and flapped off. "No!" cried Gabrielle. "Come back!"

"Fräulein Delacour, if you please."

"Eh, what?" Gabrielle turned back. She had forgotten Stanislaw, and saw now that he was tucking a wand back into his shirt. That action, and the owl's, added up to an outrage. "Did - Why - I - I needed that owl!" howled Gabrielle angrily. "Why did you send it away?" Evil, explained calmer thought. She fumbled for her wand on the ribbon. Knife, recommended a less calm thought.

"Have you forgotten our arrangement?" asked Stanislaw, grunting as he bent to pick up the boxes.

"Arrangement? You said three o'clock!" Gabrielle was forced to hurry, so there was no time for a proper run-up, and no space. She squatted down, then leaped into the air. "_Accio _owl! _Accio_ owl!"

"Dummkopf! That does not work on - any - owl," said Stanislaw, the tone used questioning the quality of education one gets these days. "We must select your - "

"_Compunctio!_"

"Merlin's Gallenblase!" gasped Stanislaw, nearly dropping the boxes. Then he did drop the boxes, taking out his wand again. "A curse?"

"I am sorry!" blurted Gabrielle. She meant it too, if not for her moment of temper then for whatever Stanislaw planned to do with his wand.

"_Petrificus Totalus," _snapped the German. That, thought Gabrielle as she fell flat, was not so bad. How often had Fleur used that on her? Even Fred had been nastier. It was, however, better to fall backwards. She was getting dust in her mouth. Dust that was alarmingly close to Soleil's stall, and what she raked out daily.

"That does not satisfy," mused Stanislaw. "Let us see... I have not used this since school. _Formicolum_." If she could have, Gabrielle would have squawked in surprise. Everywhere felt like it was getting stung, over and over. It was the feeling of a numb leg waking up, except it was all over, even her ears.

Stanislaw picked up the envelopes Gabrielle had dropped, putting them atop one of the boxes. Then, with a wave of his wand, Gabrielle joined the parade of boxes bobbing in the air. The wizard headed for her tent. The metal overshoes left twin tracks along the ground where her feet dragged.

Once inside, Stanislaw pulled the short wand from Gabrielle's frozen grip, and leaned her into one of the armchairs in the common room. "Finite," cast Stanislaw. Gabrielle collapsed into the chair face-first, free to move again and free of the uncomfortable tingling. When she had gathered herself up, she found Stanislaw with his wand ready. "That was from Durmstrang. As much as Herr Korbel would like to teach such small curses, he did not. A boyfriend attends Durmstrang?"

"No," replied Gabrielle curtly. She had another wand, but it was in her room on the other side of her foe. Without the metal boots, she might be fast enough. Still have the knife, hinted a peeved thought.

Stanislaw picked up the envelopes in turn. "One printed in the muggle fashion, possibly eine Glosse; both from Paris."

"Give me my post!" demanded Gabrielle. She fixed him with her deadliest glare, and held out her hand imperially. "And, eh, my wand."

"The post, yes, of course," said Stanislaw with what Gabrielle decided was a patronizing smile. "The wand is good - here." He laid the blond baton on the arm of the chair he stood by.

"What do you want?"

"Is your mind ein sieb? The relics from history are only valuable if they have a history. If that history comes from your vision, then it is worth more if it does not come from a mere schoolgirl," explained the wizard. "We must make you something more." He chose one of the packages and thrust it at Gabrielle.

Gabrielle stared at the parcel, trying to decide whether to be insulted or not. Stanislaw clearly thought the vision was important, or would be important if it had not come from her. He wants to help? Gabrielle's mind reeled. "Eh, what is it?"

"Good grief, such a dummkopf," sighed Stanislaw. "Think of it as a... costume. Put it on."

Gabrielle decided to acquiesce for three reasons. First, Stanislaw had bettered his offer by placing the envelopes on top of the offered box. Second, with the twisted twig that was her other wand, she could retrieve her real wand. Of course, what to do then was difficult. The little privacy wards she knew clearly did not work - Nona had proved that. The final reason was curiosity. Gabrielle was interested in seeing what was to make her more mature, more mysterious. That kind of knowledge might be very useful. Gabrielle imagined the sort of elegant robes in rich fabrics that her Maman would wear to accompany Papa to Ministry functions.

In her room, Gabrielle regretfully put her post into the handbag, which itself was tucked in between the mattresses. As desperately as she needed to read George's missive, it was more important to keep both safe so that Stanislaw could not use the letters as leverage. She also pulled out the wand with her Grandmere's hair at its core. The darker wand fairly buzzed with excitement as Gabrielle considered some of the nastier curses she had read about. Not that she would dare to try them - a backfired curse could really hurt, and be really hard to explain, something she knew from experience.

Gabrielle opened the box inside her suite's lavatory. That gave her two doors of protection in case Stanislaw was a peeper. Black was the theme of the contents of the box. Black and complicated. To Gabrielle's eye, it looked like the inside one of her roommate Lucretia's dressers. There were arm-length lace gloves. a long skirt with a very daring slit up one side, fish-net stockings, a garter belt to hold up the stockings, a short jacket, a shawl, and a lace-up bustier. Everything had its own kind of fabric and style of lace. The only unifying fashion was that it was all black, if one could ignore the different sheens. Perhaps it was more like Lucretia's laundry, thought Gabrielle. Fleur would be appalled. That, though, made the prospect of wearing the clothes just a bit more appealing.

Getting everything on was not easy. Fish-net stockings, thought Gabrielle, are stupid. She had trouble getting them on because her toes kept getting stuck. The lace-up bustier was a disaster. She could not tighten it enough, possibly because she was lacking a bit in the first syllable of the garment. The gloves were too long in the fingers; the skirt too long in the slit. Gabrielle decided that she looked like she was definitely wearing someone else's clothes.

An opinion shared by Stanislaw. "Nein, nein," he said as he circled Gabrielle. "You are pale enough, but you are not, not... you are too much still a girl. Your hair does not match at all." The urge to use a curse came back to Gabrielle as she stood there, pink with embarrassment. "You must try the next one."

Stanislaw turned to choose the next box, and Gabrielle darted forward in her stockinged feet to snatch back her wand. A loose bustier is very useful if a quick hiding spot is needed, unless one plans on bending, and the wizard showed no sign of noticing as he gave Gabrielle the next package. She walked casually back to her room, as if there was no chance that a spell would come her way. She had her eyes closed nearly the whole way, anticipating the shock.

The second box contained, Gabrielle supposed, the stereotypical gypsy costume. Another skirt, ruffled, a linen blouse that was worn off the shoulders, a handkerchief for her head, and a kilo of rings, bracelets, and bangles. No one really dressed this way, thought Gabrielle, except on muggle shows she had seen at the Touliers. At least it was easy to put on, although it took some time to find earrings that did not drag her head forward. She knew it would be rejected also as she stepped from her room.

"It is not bad," commented Stanislaw. "Covering your hair is good." Gabrielle was now fairly certain that there was no Madame Stanislaw. "Put you arms down."

"Eh, I, eh, can not," said Gabrielle. She was afraid this would happen.

"What? Ridiculous. Why not?"

"It won't stay up!" snapped Gabrielle. She glared at the animal heads on the wall, since she would not look at her nemesis.

Stanislaw said nothing though, which was a surprise, but just handed her the third box. He helped tuck it under one of her arms for her. Gabrielle learned that it was not actually possible to die of humiliation, or she would have done so. She had closed the door before she heard him roar with laughter.

The last of Stanislaw's cruel jokes sat on the bed. Gabrielle was tempted to just set it on fire, but decided that possibly burning all the mattresses that made up Fort Delacour would be inconvenient. Where would she sleep? There was Pepi-Z to consider too; he was probably wedged in there somewhere. Gabrielle could see now that she should have packed her school robes, or the robes she had worn to the Halloween dance, into her handbag, and not just the clothes she knew her Maman would clear away if given a chance. Use the vanishing spell, urged a second thought.

The third box contained a simple, shapeless shift, the kind one might wear while convalescing. It was gray, but not completely so. In fact, the gray color was really the result of fine threads of every color woven together. It seemed a lot of effort to duplicate the shade of a badly laundered sheet. The material looked like knobbly wool, but felt filmy and moved oddly, like it was as light as a spider's web. A common, everyday spider's web. The cut of the garment required no cleavage. It fit Gabrielle well enough when she pulled it over her head, though the sleeves were a little long. Except...

Except Gabrielle knew she did not want to wear it. The gray made the shift, and its wearer, seem to fade into the background, and its shapelessness emphasised her own. Her pale blue eye took on a grayer cast, and her hair, which never had much to say for itself anyway, disappeared against the cloth. Gabrielle looked into the mirror and got the worrying idea that she was becoming nothing. The slow way the shift moved gave it, and her, an insubstantial quality. Ethereal, corrected a second thought. Ghostly, added another. That was probably the desired effect, judged Gabrielle, but it was all just too creepy. While she occasionally wished to be invisible, that was very different than fading away all together.

Gabrielle pulled the shift back off and stuffed it back into the box, and hurriedly covered it with the lid. It was stupid, but even looking at it worried her. There had to be, reasoned Gabrielle, a curse or jinx on it. Definitely not a charm, which was a thought that made her remember the dress of leaves that Monique had made for her. That was pretty mysterious, or at least the motivation for it was. Gabrielle hoped it would either satisfy Stanislaw or that he had some elastic for the gypsy costume.

Leaves have stems. That was the main problem. They poked Gabrielle on the inside of the dress, making her want to fidget. She would have to wear a camisole beneath it, or people would think she was infested. Because it was from Monique, the hem, well, edge of the dress only reached mid-thigh. It was very roomy in the top too, because it was from Monique. Gabrielle looked in the mirror, and decided that she looked like she was weraing a bush. The style was not so much mystical as horticultural.

"Eh -" Gabrielle slipped back into the common room.

Stanislaw, who was poking at the wyvern head with his wand, turned. "Ah! Eine weisse frau. That is good."

"Oh. Eh, okay. I did not like the - "

"You should make something for your hair, like a crown of leaves or a hat of bark," suggested Stanislaw. "I will stop by again just before three o'clock."

Gabrielle stared at his back, dumbfounded, as he turned and left. How long had she promised to help the rude oaf? Never swear on a wand! At least there was time for her post.


	15. A Busy Day

Chapter Fifteen - A Busy Day

"Aaaaaaah!" screamed Gabrielle. It was not a shriek of pain but one of wretched frustration. "Aaaaaaaah!" Gabrielle kicked out against the surrounding walls of mattresses about her bed, attempting to share her agony with the world. The immediate world showed little regard, and the walls of Fort Delacour gave way, collapsing the roof. The next cry was greatly muffled, but no less heartfelt. The cause of her anguish was George's letter. He had come to visit her! George was travelling with Harry, Hermione, and his siblings, but he had come all the way to Delacour Manor to visit her! Without her having to threaten to burn orders! And where, raged Gabrielle as her keen sense of injustice burned, where was I? In a merdique Abraxan stall! Why, thought Gabrielle dramatically, tearing up, was fate so against our love?

While Gabrielle had a good snit well underway, air was still required, so she struggled to push the fallen mattress off of her. The violence vented toward the bedding helped, at least a little. Until, that is, a second thought suggested that not only had she missed George's visit, she had also missed the chance to tour France with him. And the others. Of course they would have invited her, reasoned Gabrielle. She could translate, she knew many interesting facts about France's magical history, and she knew a lot of their secrets anyway. Admittedly, Hermione spoke French herself and the magical history would have had to be revised, but that would have been a real summer holiday. Knowing what else she had missed made Gabrielle angry again, and she kicked the mattresses as hard as she could until they shifted and she missed. Which meant she kicked the bedpost as hard as she could and, since she was not wearing shoes, that was the end of the kicking. Although not the end of the screaming.

Defeated by fate, and the bedpost, Gabrielle withdrew. The collapsed bedding that had withstood the onslaught of her rage formed a small cave on the far side of the bed, and Gabrielle hobbled over to it and crawled inside. Everything was so unfair and she wanted no part of any of it. After a short mope, though, Gabrielle eased out of her hiding spot and poked her head under the bed to address her toad. "Can you, eh, find Pepi-Z?" asked Gabrielle. The little bobble often got wedged among the mattresses, and she had not been careful. She returned to her exile only to emerge again to retrieve George's letter, to examine its clues.

There were clues too, Gabrielle was sure of it. There was nothing specifically mentioning the scrying debacle, for example, but George used phrases like 'testing the waters' and 'waiting for the water to clear'. Was that coincidence, or was he teasing? In previous letters, recalled Gabrielle, that sort of thing was always a reference to quidditch. And George had ended his letter with, "We'll raise a cup for you." That was a peculiar choice, no matter what, but the last four words were ever so slightly darker. He might have just dipped his quill again, which meant it meant nothing. Or...

Or it meant that George did know that she had scried him, that she was forgiven, and that it was practically an invitation to do it again. A generous interpretation, warned a more cautious thought. George was being subtle, and the twins were not subtle unless there was a prank in the works. Why not just write that he wanted to see her again because he loved her so much and thought of her constantly? This was a thought that was ignored, because generous did not mean the same as incorrect. This greatly improved Gabrielle's mood, and she was sure she was right because George had included, -generous- ly included - if it were possible to be smug to one's self - one of the special boxes. The box was the thinnest she had seen yet, hardly thicker than three or four sheets of parchment folded over. That could not be making the wizards running the Owl Post very happy; they liked packages big, heavy, and costly. Gabrielle wondered if there would be a detailed map of Europe in it. That would be helpful.

A small part of Gabrielle that had rather enjoyed the snit, excepting the bedpost, picked at two problems which would get her right back to the foul temper. The first was that she had none of the Gringotts ink with her. Even if George was daring her to try again, she could not. The second problem was that she had no owl, and no idea where she could find one. That was Stanislaw's doing, accused this bit of Gabrielle's mind, and he would dare to demand her help soon.

The internal goading was not working. The contents of the slim box were too distracting. No magic ink that she could see - how would George know? - but there was another of the sheer, black bodysuits from the PrettyWitches Shield-Wear line. The first one that George had given her at the Burrow had been completely ruined by that insane Bellatrix witch. This one, according to the note in George's hand pinned to it, used that original formulation but included the latest self-sizing charms. It was a very thoughtful gift showing an interest in her well-being, judged Gabrielle, much more so than the tins of Poot Powder. Those were marked 'EXP', which was not immediately helpful. There was a packet labelled 'Slitherin' Sludge (just add water)', something called 'Slippery Slope' in thin glass vials, and a new Skiving Snackbox themed 'Late Night Curry'. A jar of livid orange glop was marked 'Quidditch Hair, Cannons, Chudley'. It exhorted the buyer to "show your colors you little rotter." A new prank was called Goose-Flesh. Once applied to the victim and given a key phrase, the butt of the joke - Gabrielle groaned and suspected Fred had written that - would feel a pinch wherever the prank had been used each time the phrase came up. It sounded very annoying and obnoxious. Gabrielle expected that the Goose-Gone spray that was also in the box would be very popular. Probably, in fact, a must-have item, for girls at least. One could imagine selling a lot more prank prevention products than actual pranks!

A collection of novelty candles was included in the package. Most were marked 'Merlin's Marvellous Menagerie.' Two were not. One of those did not appear to be a Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes product at all, and the ebony taper's wrapper had only 'Good Night Candle' on it. The other Gabrielle dropped in surprise as soon as she pulled it out. It was shaped like, like...

What was George thinking? It was what Grandmere's little book always referred to as a Manhood, in wax, a short length of wick sticking out of the, eh - What, wondered Gabrielle, was George thinking? Was she supposed to squeal and blush? She was more mature than that! Oh mon Dieu, thought Gabrielle with a jolt, was this a, a hint, a suggestion? Testing the waters? Oh mon Dieu! Now she felt a blush come. It look like Pickle's, eh, pickle. Who, asked a piqued thought, had been the model? Ron? Fred? Oh mon Dieu, George? The enclosed cave was starting to get stuffy. What was she supposed to do with this obscene candle? A quickly banished thought suggested: check it for fit?

Gabrielle, shaking her head to clear the idea thoroughly, realized that she had been holding the anatomic taper for too long. She threw it under the bed, out of sight. Girls in the dorm would giggle about candles and what someone else, always someone else, supposedly did with them. Gabrielle never believed it, and now she believed, no, knew the rude wax to be Fred's idea of humor.

The next item out of the flat box was a flexible disk, black on one side and white on the other, roughly the size of a dinner plate. A 'Weasleys' Wizard W-Hole', with 'Peel-n-Stick Convenience', read the wrapper. George's note spellotaped to it said the circle was a discontinued item, and that she should not put it in the handbag, just to be safe. Attached at the bottom was a scroll which, when Gabrielle unrolled it, revealed a meter of flashing warnings and very tiny print. It was, apparent from the multiple repetitions, very important to never touch, in anyway, the sticky side. She had no doubt the product was discontinued, especially when the final warning was a recommendation to buy something else. The dark circle would, according to the dragging scroll, create a six inch deep hole instantly in whatever it was stuck to. That included charmed, cursed, or otherwise spelled items, goblin-forged metals, and, most importantly, one's fingers or hand.

Gabrielle put the 'W-Hole' under the bed also. She had nearly lost the last on the list before, and was not about to risk that again. She wondered why George would send such a dangerous item. From the many potential answers her mind came up with, Gabrielle selected the warming thought that George assumed she was much more capable than their regular customers. Which may not have been such high regard, considering the amount of Poot Powder she distributed.

The box disappeared in a puff of smoke as the last item was pulled from it. It was a large metal beetle, which promptly bit her. Gabrielle shook her hand and pulled the thing off of her. It dropped to the ground inert, and Gabrielle sucked at the bleeding puncture. Another, thought Gabrielle sourly, of Fred's contributions. Why was he involved at all? This was between George and herself. Of course, the twins were usually together on things. Perhaps, guessed Gabrielle, this meant that Fred finally saw that George would only be happy with her. Still, it had not been funny. She picked up the now still beetle, carefully avoiding the pincers up front. Gabrielle recognized it; George had had one at the Weasley's. It only took a moment to work out the move the wing case aside. Beneath was a stylized wing; some of the panes between the interlocking veins glowed dully, forming numbers, next to which was an arrow. It was curious, and reminded Gabrielle of the jagged lines on the telly that Philippe's computator was attached to. What it was, though, was a mystery. The little arrow turned as she did, so it was obvious it was pointing to something, thought the numbers did not change at all. Under the other wing was the time, shown in similarly glowing numbers. Gabrielle turned it over and tried to pull apart the legs, something the metal insect did not approve of. It flailed its legs and worked its pincers, so Gabrielle let it drop. She had been hoping for a set of directions.

v - v - v - v - v

Harry Potter sat on the floor, by a window that looked real at first, but was actually just an illusion. What made it such a good illusion was that instead of showing the coast and sea that was so close, it showed a trash-strewn back alley where feral cats hunted. The flat that Fred and Verity had rented was not far from similar muggle flats, but it was far from being a muggle flat. There was, Harry noted, no key for the garden gate. There was no proper gate either really, just a design on the fence of carved roses and twining, thorny vines. Touch the roses in the right order with a wand and the vines curled away and parted, revealing the small garden and the entrance to the flat. The doorway was simple and tidy like the garden, though the dustbins could use some attention. The flat appeared very spacious inside from the numerous long hallways that led off the central hall, but the couple were limited to four rooms at the back. They were the only human guests. The rest of the flat was used by unseen feline visitors, whose presence was made evident by their pee-based conversations. Fred explained that a house-elf he called Scratches came by at night to feed the cats. A charmed breeze kept it tolerable.

Neither Fred nor Verity were present at the moment. Fred had apparated to and from the apothecary for something to soothe Verity's flaming skin. He had insisted that the treatment begin as soon as possible, which interrupted Verity's distribution of large, and largely ignored, plates of raw vegetables. Harry had not even been aware that one could eat broccoli raw, let alone aubergines. Fred's solicitous concern swayed the blond, and they moved to the bath. Together, something Ginny made note of with a nudge. The walls of the flat were thin enough to make George's Extendable Ear redundant.

"Squidgums, are you sure you're supposed to use that much?"

"Nothing but the best for you, Pookie."

"It's, it's very thick, is all."

"Smells nice, though, right? Herb-ish, French-like?"

"Ooh, yes. It's a lovely scent. But it's getting all, um, sticky."

"This is a Veela trick - no, sorry, make that secret. For the skin. You know how they are."

"This is from Fleur? Why would - Squidgums, you're getting it in my hair!"

"There's skin under your hair too, Pookie."

"Om, mes, mi mummose. Mum -"

"You just lay back and stay still. I'll just go and see if our guests need even more beneficial fiber, and I'll be back with some of the wine from last night, all right? Just blink twice for yes. Good!"

Fred came back into the sitting room looking very pleased. "Get the fat on the fire, will you George? Let's have a proper feed."

"Already melting, Squidgums"

"If you're done with that broccoli, Harry? Oy Ron, hand over that plate of endive."

"This is endive?"

"Might be - it's all green to me," replied Fred.

"What have you done, Fred?" asked Hermione.

"I've punned poorly. No pun-ishment for that, is there?" winked Fred.

"There will be if you don't stop," warned George.

"I meant to Verity. I know you are up to something," accused Hermione.

"As if that's a great whacking insight to the world! I'm still alive, aren't I? Of course I'm up to something. In this case, just a bit of accelerated healing for my fair bride, er, bird," replied Fred. "Now pass those... well, whatever it is in that bowl."

"Fair bride?" repeated Ginny.

"Just a figure of speech!"

"Of - course - it - is," smiled Ginny. She turned to Hermione. "I know what he did, I saw the bag."

"_Tempuratsun__!_" called Fred, aiming his wand at the large bowl he had been dumping vegetables into. A thick stream of batter gushed from the wand. "You can eat almost anything if it's dipped in batter and fried."

"And now," announced George, "for something completely different. It's Fred and George's Frying Circus!" Assorted vegetables leaped into the air and tumbled slowly, before plunging into the hot oil.

"I don't get it," said Ron, while Harry and Hermione laughed.

"Mijjums? Mar moo mare?" hummed Verity from the bath.

"Oh yeah, the wine," said Fred. He found the bottle, paused, and then pulled open a drawer. "And, I think, a funnel."

"What do you think he's done, Ginny?" asked Hermione. She moved over to Ginny, since Ron had moved closer to the cooking. A continuous parade of batter-coated vegetables arced slowly to the pot, while a complimentary procession of golden brown items twirled their way to waiting plates. It was very impressive if one ignored the gentle rain of sloppy batter and scalding oil.

"Remember when we found Gigi in the porridge, when it had hardened up?" asked Ginny.

v - v - v - v - v

"You two are completely pathetic. Really letting our side down," scolded George. The targets of his disgusted pronouncement were his brothers. Fred lay on the ground with a swelling bruise straight across his face that was suspiciously similar to one that a wine bottle might make. Ron was on the ground as well, which was not at all surprising given that Hermione had turned his legs to jelly.

There was nothing but a groan from Fred, but Ron muttered, "Bugger off."

Harry sat on a bench, looking through a day-old Prophet. He was not quite sure what Fred had done, but whatever it had been had resulted in Fred crashing through the bath door completely starkers. That had distracted Ron, who had been trying his hand at conjuring fish sauce from his wand. The red sauce ended up coating Hermione. Likely, thought Harry, it was Ron's attempt to clean the mess with the battered vegetables, especially when she complained about it dripping into her knickers, that brought on the curse. The result of the disquiet was that the wizards were banished to the garden, while the witches cleaned themselves up.

"I can't believe that people are so afraid of muggles," commented Harry. The Prophet quoted a number of wizards and witches commending the Ministry for the sanctuaries.

"It's because folks were around for Grindelwald. He used the muggles and their armies in his war," explained George.

"Oh, right. Hermione mentioned something like that before," remembered Harry. "So, erm, Voldemort is using the muggles? I thought he wanted to kill them all, or, I dunno, enslave them?"

George shrugged. "It's all part of the WASI crowd's thinking. Wizard Alliance for Social Isolation - can't get more isolated than living in a big green bubble. That Chairman bloke might be the one who came up with the sanctuaries. Whether You-Know-Who is behind the muggles or the Chairman, or both, well, I'm a bludger to that one."

"Guess what thriving, well-managed business didn't make it onto the list of official sanctuary suppliers? Just take a bloody guess," griped Fred.

"It lives!" exclaimed George. "Won't matter, I don't think folks'll stay in those for long. Anyway, that's all a matter of influence."

"You've spotted the real snitch on the pitch - tariffs, customs, and fees," declared Fred sourly. "Knew-it-all nets my arse."

"I still can't - feel - my arse," complained Ron.

"Hang onto your bleeding wand then," admonished George.

"So you think the maps weren't from the muggles then?"

"If those maps did come from the muggles, then it was the Yanks who made them," asserted George.

"The Americans?" asked Harry. "Why would they get involved?"

"Not big supporters of magic, the Yank government. They didn't like running into it in the last great muggle war." George started slightly, and pulled the metal beetle out of a pocket. He noted what was under a wing with a smile before stowing it away.

"But there's a magic school there, right? In, erm, Salem?"

"Yeah, and it's full of ex-pats from the rest of the world. Not a lot of magic in America - no one's sure why. Some say it's a curse from the native shamans. Whatever the cause, the only thing worse than being behind the Yanks in something is being ahead of them," said George. "There's a reason they chose Hiroshima."

"What's a 'iroshima?" grunted Ron. He was finding it difficult to turn over without using his legs. Harry would have lifted the curse, but he was getting a little tired of the antics.

"Former Imperial wizard shrine and the Japanese city it was in," said George. "Not much left of the shrine now but a bit of dome. The Yanks blew it up with a bomb."

"A bomb?" doubted Ron.

"Ha, the A-bomb. Like twenty-five - million - Door-Knockers going off all at once. It must have been beautiful, " said Fred sounding wistful.

"Uhh..." Harry had learned about the war, and the atomic bombs, before Hogwarts.

"I meant beautiful except for all the people vaporized."

"Twenty-five million?" asked Ron in awe.

"Muggle bombs come bigger these days, too, big enough to flatten Hogwarts," nodded George. "So you can see that the muggles getting involved is a bit of a concern."

"How do you know all this stuff?" wondered Harry. The History of Magic curriculum seemed to ignore muggles almost entirely. It was always goblins and centaurs and all.

"Pour enough wine, whiskey, or tea into an old windbag and let 'em blather. A lot will be utter dung, but you learn to pick out the interesting bits," explained Fred. "Sake works a treat on the Japanese wizards. They'll go through a bottle of the good stuff each, though."

"But, erm, but if the Ministry knows that, and thinks that Voldemort is trying to use the muggles like Grindelwald, then why put everyone together in one place? Especially out in the countryside?" asked Harry. This discussion was making his head ache.

"Well now, Grindelwald -"

v - v - v - v - v

"Well, now. Grindelwald," said the gaunt, adolescent boy standing on the sill outside the bars of the narrow, high window.

The thin, emaciated figure under the blanket stirred, and an even more gaunt, almost skull-like face turned to the window. Dark, sunken eyes squinted against the light. "Ein Geier, oder? Geh weg, ich bin noch nicht tot." He waved an arm as if to shoo the arrival away.

Lord Voldemort squeezed past the bars, which helpfully stretched out of the way before returning to block passage. He floated down to the bare stone floor of the barren cell. "The Wand, you pathetic old man. Tell me of the Wand." The Dark Lord peered into the eyes of the decrepit wizard who had once set Europe aflame, but could not see more.

Not breaking eye contact, the frail Grindelwald moved to sit up. "I see you now. I thought you would come one day." He smiled, showing that most of his teeth were gone. "You have wasted the effort. I never had it."

"You can not lie to Lord Voldemort!" The Dark Lord increased his efforts trying to find something to hold onto in the great dark eyes. He drew his wand. "Legilimens!"

The wasted shell of the man barely flinched. Lord Voldemort granted the enfeebled wizard a measure of respect for that, and for forcing the use of the spell. It would, resolved the Dark Lord, be his last triumph. The blackness, even now, yielded only slightly, enough to see a face amid the fire and smoke: Dumbledore.

v - v - v - v - v

Gabrielle knew she was in trouble as soon as she stepped dramatically into the room. It was not as dramatic if one knew she had been waiting in the water closet, but Stanislaw's tent was not as large as hers. Or, frankly, as clean; she tried not to touch anything. The wizard with Stanislaw was dangerously old, tall, and bony, with a flowing mane of white hair that looked more vibrant and alive than the rest of him. It was really quite amazing. His jaw dropped when Gabrielle entered, wearing her dress of leaves and a crown of twigs, and he immediately called out "Melusina!" He looked completely unsettled to Gabrielle, and she knew what that meant. Without Stanislaw's hold over her, she would have run.

Instead, she sat with a tiring arm outstretched because the wizard, Herr Whatever Von Something, had taken her hand when Stanislaw had introduced them and had not released it even when they sat down at the small table. It was decidedly awkward. The elder wizard listened attentively, rapturously to her recounting in English, which was their common tongue. Except that Gabrielle did not like thinking of this insane old man, common, and tongue in the same sentence. She did wish she could touch his hair.

"[And zen ze, eh, vampire, he struck his heel on ze floor, and ze tower began to fall]," finished Gabrielle. She gave the old wizard a polite hint by briefly pulling at her hand.

"[A terrible vision for one so pure]," said the wizard. Von Schnittwinkel, that was his name, remembered Gabrielle. Probably. He did not take the hint, but patted her hand to comfort her. "[I promise my life to prevent such to happen again.]"

Gabrielle looked to Stanislaw for help, but her nemesis was looking too pleased to see she that needed some. "[Eh, no, zere is no need. Ze attack, it, eh, happened to someone else, you see? I can only See the past.]"

"[Ja, remarkable ability for such beautiful eyes]," said Von Schnittwinkel dreamily. Gabrielle blushed at the earnest compliment. Awkward was now becoming uncomfortable. She wished she had taken her wand. Too late had she realized that the wand with Grandmere's hair looked enough like the twigs of her crown that she could have hid it there. A well-aimed Compunctio would remind Von Schnitzel, or whatever, of his manners.

Stanislaw did come to her aid, eventually, but not intentionally. The old wizard was just distracted by the bits of debris that Abby's cobbled-together Gleason apparatus had picked out. Most were charred and misshapen lumps, but there were also spoons and what looked like bone. The two wizards began negotiating in German, Stanislaw lovingly caressing the detritus while Von Senile poked at them dismissively. When Von White-hair brought out a red shard and put it to his eye, something Stanislaw looked annoyed by, Gabrielle was able to take her hand back. She wondered if she could leave; her part seemed to be over.

The shuffling of the ruined pieces of the past uncovered something which caught Gabrielle's eye. "[You found Wyrmbreath!]" she blurted.

The two men turned to her surprised. She plucked out the familiar pink crystal. "Wyrmbreath?" asked both wizards.

"[Eh, zat was the name of ze staff. I did not say? Zis was on top. You can find vampires if you look through it,]" explained Gabrielle. The two men were staring at her. Did they think she was making it up? She held the crystal up to her eye. The old wizard was a blurry pink, but so was Stanislaw, which was a relief. Gabrielle wished that she had her wand and Pepi-Z. What would the zombie puffskein look like?

"[You are certain?]" asked Von Schnittwinkel seriously.

Gabrielle turned back to him. He was still a blurry pink, so she lowered the stone. "[Eh, I zink so. It, eh, fits here. You see? Zis is a piece also.]" Gabrielle smiled reassuringly at the elderly wizard.

"[Three hundred galleons,]" whispered the old wizard in awe.

"What did he say?" asked Stanislaw.

"Three hundred galleons," translated Gabrielle. She moved another piece to where it looked like it might go if she had all the pieces. It was clear who had won that duel, in the tower, in the past.

"Tell him four hundred galleons, and smile at him again," said Stanislaw greedily.

"[Eh, four hundred galleons?]" said Gabrielle uncertainly. She tried her best smile, and wondered if either wizard was really serious. The staff was quite obviously broken.

"[Of course. Ja. Four hundred galleons,]" nodded Von Schnittwinkel, returning a smile that showed he either smoked too much or drank too much coffee, or both.

Gabrielle was about to repeat that to Stanislaw when he slapped himself on the head and muttered, "It should have been five hundred." She was glad it had not been. That completely insane.

Gabrielle watched the rest of the transaction complete in exchanges of German, trying not to fidget noticeably. The stems were starting to itch more; poor Monique if clothes of leaves were going to be a big part of her wardrobe. The stems were forgotten when the stacks of galleons were being toted up. Gabrielle was still amazed. There were, based on the ravaged carvings, only four pieces of the ancient staff on the table, not including the stone. How could so little be worth so much?

Stanislaw began carefully collecting the miscellaneous rubble, placing it all carefully into a box. It was, thought Gabrielle, the least he could do. If she was paying that much, she would expect the merchandise to be wrapped in gilded paper. And, frankly, to be given a complimentary broom to ride home on with the box.

"[Now, dear Melusina -]" started the white-maned wizard.

"[No, it is Gabrielle. 'G' is for, eh,]" reminded Gabrielle, before wondering why she was saying it.

"[Of course, forgive an old man,]" said Von Schnittwinkel. He gently took her hand again, and smiled his yellowed smile hopefully. "[I wish to ask a small thing of you.]"

Gabrielle swallowed, his manner worrying her. What could he want from her? He - he could not expect a kiss could he? It was not like she was getting the galleons! Stanislaw should kiss him. "[Eh, what is it?]" she finally asked as the pause grew uncomfortably awkward.

"[Please, I beg you, would you read my palm, before you must return to your forest?]"

Gabrielle wondered, 'my forest'? Did he think her a wandering tree? At least he was polite. She hoped that he did not have an old farm house or rotting castle that he would want to bequeath. "[Eh, I do not have much, eh, practice wizz palm reading,]" she warned.

"[I have faith that you can.]" Herr Von Schnittwinkel turned his palm up for her.

Madame Sombrevoir said that she needed to use the Gift, so Gabrielle began to examine the wrinkled hand. Anyway, what choice did she have? A glance at Stanislaw found him nodding encouragingly; no doubt to make up for his guilt at taking so many galleons.

The old wizard's palm was quite different than any of her classmates'. For one thing, it was larger. The skin was thicker, and very wrinkled as well. The fate line was very different too. Gabrielle traced it with a fingertip several times. The line was ragged, nearly disjointed. That definitely meant something, she was sure of that, if not exactly what that something was. He had to be at least a century old, decided Gabrielle, but without knowing his exact age she could not tell where exactly to begin. She rubbed at a thin white scar at the base of his thumb, and speculated what had made it.

A sharp intake of breath made Gabrielle look up. Herr Von Schnittwinkel was very red in the face, and a sheen of perspiration dampened his brow. She looked at him curiously, brow furrowed. He reddened further, the shining whiteness of his hair contrasting greatly. Gabrielle had the sudden thought that perhaps he had a heart condition. It made reading his palm easier; she only had to look near the end. Which was, given the potential gravity of the situation, perhaps not what she should have been thinking. Though, it did jog Gabrielle's memory, and she remembered what the jaggedness of the fate line meant. She studied his upturned hand again, and counted six near-death episodes, touching each spot as she did.

"[Ah, your eyes can see them, yes? There is no doubt,]" said the bony wizard, his voice an odd squeak before clearing his throat. "[I have fought many duels for the good, and have walked with Death five times. One of those times was even after the war.]"

"[Not, eh, six times?]" returned Gabrielle. She bent her head over his hand to reexamine it, considered it speculatively, then licked a finger and scrubbed at the last of the tangles in the palm crease. Perhaps it was just dirt or a scratch. Herr Von Schnittwinkel made a strangled sort of noise, which made Gabrielle look up again. "[You are, eh, okay?]"

"[I shall not forget this day soon,]" he smiled. "[Nor wash that hand.]"

"[Eh, what?]" If she had just bought a pile of rubble dug out of the ground for four hundred galleons, thought Gabrielle, she would also find it hard to forget, no matter how much she would want to. As for hand-washing, well, it was not dirt. There were six places where the fate line was close to being severed. Definitely. Probably. If Gabrielle angled his palm just the right way, the fine wrinkles near the furthest spot looked a little like a horse's head. A horse's head, but with spikes. Spike, if those were actually supposed to be ears. A horse with a spike? "[Unicorns! You, eh, should avoid unicorns,]" advised Gabrielle, smiling at her own success. "[A unicorn will kill you. Eh, nearly.]" Perhaps, came a second thought, that was not something to say while smiling.

This did not seem to bother Herr Von Schnittwinkel much. He returned her smile with one of his own, and nodded as he praised 'Melusina's' powers. Gabrielle rather hoped that that was the end, as the old wizard had clearly lost his senses. The meeting was crossing the border from weird to creepy. Fortunately Stanislaw was there to push the box into the Von Crazy's hands, which made him release hers. An exchange in German followed. Herr Von Schnittwinkel was definitely demanding something of Stanislaw; probably his galleons back. Gabrielle decided that she did not want to be caught in the middle of a duel, so she stood up also. She could try to slip back into the water closet, but, eeuw. No, Gabrielle realized, she would have to edge around the table to slip closer to the tent's entrance.

There was no need for such a retreat as Stanislaw appeared to acquiesce to the older wizard's demands, though the galleons stayed on the table. Gabrielle suspected that four hundred galleons would buy a lot of agreeableness. Unfortunately, the resolution of the dispute came just as she neared the door. The timing made it seem as though she had moved to bid Von Schnittwinkel adieu, something which greatly pleased him. He kissed her hand and babbled about forests and how she could call upon him to battle as her personal knight. Gabrielle thanked him politely, but pointed out that unicorns lived in forests, so perhaps it was best if she did not. He left crestfallen. As he had bent over to kiss her hand, a gleaming lock of his hair had brushed her hand. It was disappointingly stiff.

His leaving meant that Gabrielle had to stay of course, in case he tried to drag her into that forest. Loud clunking noises drew her attention from the door. Stanislaw was tapping his wand on a heavy wooden chest that was bound in brass. The lid opened suddenly with a resonating thud, and he placed the gold inside. The chest then shut violently at his touch; for a moment, the brass-bound edges looked as if they had teeth. Stanislaw stood up after sliding the chest back into the small wardrobe. "That went very well," he said with a loud clap of his hands. Yes, thought Gabrielle, for you. Four hundred galleons...

"Eh, I should see to Soleil," said Gabrielle. After changing, of course, or getting back to her tent would be very embarrassing if Soleil used her dress as a snack.

"Stay a moment longer, Leibchen," said Stanislaw. He pulled a dark bottle from the depths of the wardrobe. "A drink to celebrate, I think." His short glass was nearly full of the heavy, purple-black liquid; hers, not even half that and topped off with water from his wand.

Gabrielle eyed the beverage suspiciously. "What is it?"

"An aperitif that Festeller - Herr Festeller makes. It is very good."

Gabrielle sniffed her glass. The contents smelled strongly of berries. A sip tasted like blackberries with a hint of cherry, and was sweeter than she expected. Stronger too, even though it was watered down Gabrielle could feel the alcohol burn her throat. There was something besides berries, also, something that made her mind's eye see fairies. A lot of fairies, near a clear pool in a deep forest. They flitted and spun through the air, colliding with each other, smeared with the dark red juice of the knobbly fruit that was nearly the size of their heads. She could see that the fairies were having trouble staying airborne, and that the ones tumbling to the ground were being, euphemistically, incorrigible. She crept closer, the dizzying cloud of tiny winged creatures drifting along too. Another moment and she was upon the first of the tangled, sleeping bodies, roots slowly curling around limbs and torsos.

Gabrielle pulled the glass from her lips and looked at the small amount remaining in dismay. The something that she was tasting was, was, - mon Dieu!

"Aperitifs, they are meant to be savored," said Stanislaw, shaking his head. "You should not drink it all at once. Now, do we have an agreement?" he held out a leather pouch to Gabrielle.

"Eh, what?" asked Gabrielle. She did not know what he was talking about. She held up the glass accusingly. "This is made from dead fairies."

Stanislaw stared at her for a long moment before replying. "No, it is from the berries of the Leckerbeeren bush. Fairies are most often grilled." He tossed the pouch onto the table in front of her. It jangled in an enticing, familiar way, and Gabrielle forgot about the last of his comment.

"What is this?" she said as she picked the bag up. Gabrielle had a good idea as to what it was.

Stanislaw closed his eyes in a pained expression and sighed heavily. "You were not listening at all?"

v - v - v - v - v

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	16. A Busy Night

Chapter Sixteen - A Busy Night

Thirty galleons! Gabrielle arranged the gold in a circle, creating an extravagant corral for her zombie puffskein. Thirty galleons as a finder's fee, and more if she would help in future sales, either with a vision of the past or a smile for the gullible. The second part gave her pause, but Gabrielle figured that the first was where she would be the most help. Anyway, thirty galleons! She had enough for an owl now; she had enough to buy an owl.

Of course, the problem was finding an owl. Gabrielle had thought about this, when not stacking the galleons. Clearly, stopping by a convenient owlery was out of the question. Someone in camp - must - have an owl, though. Abby would know. Surely, thought Gabrielle, she could borrow a bird for a galleon. Or even two, which would be outrageous everywhere else except in the hinterlands of the magic world.

Whether the expedition would stay in these particular hinterlands for much longer was now slightly in doubt. The preparations for the evening meal had had a hurried feel to them, and fewer dishes had been made. Which was a good thing, thought Gabrielle, as, for some reason, the knife had been more unwieldy than usual or her coordination off. Her fingers were covered in Nona's gross poultices. The cottage had always been very spare, but this night the place had had a very distinct air of being packed up. There was no change in the old crone herself, though. Gabrielle had been thoroughly ladled when Nona had discovered that Gabrielle was not wearing the corroded medallion, and she had been forced to get it. "Sempre," Nona had told her again. In a very emphatic way, the memory of which made Gabrielle rub her head.

Thinking about the necklace and Nona, thinking about the big black cauldron and the crystal ball now hidden away, and thinking about owls and galleons forged a moment of perfect clarity for Gabrielle. It was as if all the secrets of the world had been laid bare, the Hidden Realm unhidden. She was a witch, and witches could make magical ink. The ink from Gringotts was just ready-made and not, decided Gabrielle, required. A Seer, a professional Seer - thirty galleons - could use any magic ink. All she needed was a cauldron, a recipe, and the ingredients. Then she would be able to scry George again. And as for the owl, thought Gabrielle, well, there were all sorts of Post owls, weren't there? That meant that there was no particular kind of owl that was needed from some special breeding farm - eh, aviary. The woods near the clearing where the camp was made were probably full of owls. The birds would probably not be very reliable, but if she used three of four then surely one would get through. That would save her professional galleons.

Being a professional Seer, while very cool, was also a cause for some worry. Gabrielle was pretty sure that one needed a Ministry license to be one; the Ministry had licenses for everything. There might be a test, too. Papa, thought Gabrielle, would know for certain, though it might be better if her new status was kept a secret for a while. After all, the Ministry had taxes for everything as well.

Right now though, concluded Gabrielle, the first order of business was to tear up her desperate apology to George that she had hurriedly written earlier, and write a proper letter. If he was not angry, then she did not have to be sorry. Then she would have to make several copies of the new letter, and find some willing owls.

v - v - v - v - v

"That's not on this map."

"We know, Ron. That is why we are not using that map," said Hermione patiently. With the exception of the aggrieved Verity, everyone was sitting in the small garden outside the flat. Hermione had made sure with numerous spells that the conversations could not carry beyond it. Harry was not fooled by her demeanor though. It was the third time she had said it, and her tone was getting brittle.

"At least it works," claimed Ron. The map folded itself neatly at the tap of his wand. "See?"

"Yes, it makes a smashing party-favor. Unfortunately, it isn't much of a map," said Hermione. She suddenly smiled, eyes devious. "This one... has restaurants marked on it."

"Yeah? Lemme have a look," said Ron.

George flicked his wand at the folded parchment his brother had dropped, sending it flapping to his hand. "It's a little behind, but it's not totally useless."

"A little? It's a century out-of-date," protested Hermione. "Or more."

"Yeah, all right, I'll grant you that," agreed George. "The thing is, Italy hasn't moved much in that century. We'll need it to stay on course out over the water."

"Help me find a restaurant that doesn't serve vegetables," said Ron.

"Why would you want a place that wouldn't serve you?" asked Fred.

"What?" asked Ron, looking up from the muggle map. "What are you bleeding' laughin' about?"

"Nothing," said Harry, making as if he had coughed.

"Speaking of which, how is Pookie doing?" inquired Ginny.

"Ah, she's in one of her funny moods," sighed Fred.

"Don't you mean homicidal?"

"She was just trying to do it up all posh-like, for Harry," explained Fred.

"For me?" asked Harry in surprise.

"Wanted to impress the Boy-Who-Lived, that sort of thing."

"With raw broccoli?" wondered Ginny.

"I am impressed! That door was smashed right through," noted Harry.

"You can award her a commemorative, signed scroll for 'Best Fred-shaped Hole'," suggested George. "Let her know her efforts didn't go unnoticed. Girls like that sort of thing."

"That's bloody rich, you giving advice like that," snorted Fred.

"What this? What this? What are you saying? I'm always -"

"Lucy Warbeck," interrupted Fred. It caught George off-guard, because whatever was going to come out of his mouth did not. "Hah! You don't even bloody remember her."

"'Course I do! She was the one with, uh - um..." started George.

"Long, dark curly hair?" suggested Fred.

"Yeah, that's her. Whatever happened -"

"No. She had short, straight, brown hair, a tenuous grasp on sanity, and she tried to stab you because you had her birthday wrong. Then you told her it might have been another girl's birthday you were thinking of," reported Fred. "When folks want to see someone digging their own grave, they look you up."

"I remember that knife. A stiletto, from Italy as it happens. I still have it," said George, apparently, noticed Harry, untroubled by the incident that gave him the blade.

"You two really know how to pick 'em. Didn't Gigi stab the both of you gits?" reminded Ginny.

"Technically, yes, but it wasn't much of an effort," critiqued Fred.

"Can we get back to Italy?" asked Harry. Only Mad-Eye could take longer to plan things.

"Wouldn't think so," started George. "Haven't been -"

"I meant back to planning," clarified Harry. "It's nearly dark already."

"Are you and your bride - bird - flying with us, Fred?" asked Ginny.

"If that was an attempt to be clever, you might want to try an Engorgio on it," dismissed Fred. "But no. As fascinating as a trip to the backside of Albania is surely likely to be, there's a full moon coming up. So we'll soak up a bit more sun and then head back to that green and pleasant land."

"What are you doing at the full moon?" It had to be something to do with Moony, thought Harry. This would be a way to get a note to his guardian.

"What are you doing in Albania?" retorted Fred.

"Harry's just off to pay a visit to one of his Dad's old chums," explained George. "Might drop off a tin of Vargot's Old Reliable silver tarnish remover for him."

"There's a coincidence. I'll be popping 'round to one of Harry's Dad's old chums myself. Harry's Dad's hairy chum," said Fred.

"It's Moony, right? You're talking about Moony?" asked Harry. "Can you take a message to him from me?"

"Can I look at it?"

"What? No."

"Then rent an owl, mate."

"What?"

"Go ahead and let him, Harry," said Hermione. "Just let me be the one to seal it."

"Erm, yeah, all right," said Harry. "You can have a go, Fred."

"Oh ho! A challenge. Stakes are a bit thin for my taste, but at least it'll give me something to do on the bloody moors," said Fred.

"But Moony has to be able to read the original," added Harry quickly.

"Whatever are you implying? I am renown for my subtle skill and careful techniques," claimed Fred.

"And explosions," nodded George.

"Can you hold this a moment, Fred?" asked Hermione, holding out a book with a leather cover mottled with mold. "I've got one more, as a hint."

'Don't - " started George, but it was too late. Fred's hand closed on the book and he was gone. George gave Hermione a peeved look. "Have you ever heard the phrase 'bad precedent'? Where to?"

"San Marino, I think," said the girl, nonchalantly checking the map.

"San Marino? Without Verity and her camera? She bloody will kill him!" exploded George.

"Oh, you meant Fred? Just back into the flat," replied Hermione calmly.

"Does this mean we aren't flying?" asked Ron.

"No, we have to fly. Portkeys are a bit like apparition that way; you can only go to a place you know," explained Hermione. "And I, er, can't get them to go very far."

"Then you may want to get a head-start on Fred," advised George.

"Should we be worried about the French Ministry?" wondered Harry. "Portkeys have to be authorized here as well, right?"

"Well, yes, they do, but, er, such a short distance is probably untraceable," said Hermione, her face turning slightly pink.

"Probably?" repeated Ginny. "That's comforting, innit?"

"Hermione," started Harry crossly.

"Leave off her," barked Ron. "She's worked really hard on this. Anyway, she's done it before, no problem. And you were keen on it before."

"Well, yeah. I was thinking it might be handy in an actual emergency," said Harry. "Fred isn't an emergency."

"Might be one now," laughed George after the outside door of the flat slammed open, revealing Fred with his wand at the ready. Hermione disappeared with a bang.

"I'll give this bludger a thump," said George. He headed off toward his twin. Fred was aiming his wand at the dustbins.

Harry's relief was cut short by Ginny, who noted, "The thing about beaters is that they aim the bludger at someone else."

v - v - v - v - v

Severus Snape sat, with a carefully arranged smile, in a private hell, which today was located in the dining room of the humble muggle inn. The Dark Lord, who would flay in an instant the skin from a loyal follower he had known for years, was accepting another helping of topfenknoedel he had wheedled from the doting, elderly muggles. Snape's 'nephew' was quite the charmer, and very good at the banalities required in these circumstances. The former professor knew he was not good at such, that he treated the banal with disdain. Fortunately, nothing much was required of him now as he did not speak the language used by the old muggle and his wife. Neither did the Dark Lord; that he managed a conversation easily was a trick that would be worth learning. Snape simply had to endure the treacly scene before him, smiling enough to show that he somehow approved of the ghastly prattle.

The Dark Lord, noticed Snape, was quite comfortable in his latest vessel, his latest puppet. Certainly his magical abilities appeared to have returned to form. While Azkaban had lost its dementors, Nurmengard had not. At the arrival of the Dark Lord, the infernal creatures had streamed... away. That too was a spell worth learning, thought Snape. Dementors roamed all of Britain now, though it was true that the sheer numbers of muggles diluted the risk greatly.

There were no unusual character eccentricities with the present embodiment either, no hint of the other. Perhaps the boy's youth meant that no strong proclivities had been formed, or perhaps his comatose state was simply continued. The only noticeable inclination was a penchant for double pudding, which would, of course, not be unexpected of a student. It seemed, considered Snape, that the Dark Lord had found a very favorable circumstance, and one that would let his plots move forward. The message, as cryptic as it was heavily warded, sent by owl earlier was evidence of that. The resurgence would mean the return of followers, both eager new and entitled old. That would mean, sighed Snape, a return to the tiresome and potentially deadly jostling for favor and position. Would the Dark Lord continue to keep him close as one who knew his secrets, or kill him for the same? The key seemed to be the obsession with a fairytale wand, and how much attention the boy - the Dark Lord - would continue to give it. As always, he had been unreadable after returning from Nurmengard.

v - v - v - v - v

Gabrielle chimed quietly as she approached the Abraxan's stall, an effect of the iron galoshes. She did not need them very often, but, of course, she could not know exactly when she would, so she had to wear them all the time. If she could only See the future...

The sound alerted Soleil to her presence, and he nickered quietly. Or perhaps it was just the smell of the whiskey-soaked oats in the heavy bucket she was lugging. The extra rations were an inducement to get his cooperation, a small snack so he would not be tempted to eat her quarry, and something Gabrielle decided to do since she was fiddling with the bottles as she set her trap. She had noticed that the missing whiskey was always taken, rather unimaginatively, from the back row of the corked, amber bottles. The next bottle in the row now had a little surprise in it. She had mixed in the tins of Poot Powder (EXP) George had sent. If dorm seven was any indication, it would be easy to find the one swiping Soleil's supply.

Gabrielle needed Soleil to look for owls. It was early evening still; any owls would be hunting. But, thought Gabrielle, so would other creatures. That is, if there were other creatures - the howls at night could have come from the mounted animal heads in her tent. In any case, it was unlikely that any beast would approach Soleil, and fewer still that would survive a kick from the Abraxan. If such a creature did approach and did survive, then it would be her and Soleil flying away instead of just her just running. In fact, mused Gabrielle, an Abraxan was possibly indispensable when it came to catching an owl. Besides the protection, there was the luxury of not having to walk to the woods in the first place. Also, she would be perched, ha, up high on his back, which was closer to where owls would be flying. That would make it difficult for the birds to ignore her. Which was good, because the evening meal had been cleared away so fast that she had not managed to set aside any meat scraps. All that Gabrielle had for a lure was a lump of the cheese from her handbag, and that lump was starting to get crusty.

Gabrielle set the pail down in front of the winged horse. Soleil bent his neck down to it immediately, so Gabrielle fetched out the halter and reins. She also decided to put on the girth, which she did not normally do when she exercised Soleil, since she did not use the saddle then. The great beast lifted his head when she approached again.

"I have something to do in the forest," explained Gabrielle as she worked the halter onto Soleil. "You can come with me. It will be fun, yes?" A snort emanated from the depths of the pail. "It might be," she argued.

Gabrielle now remembered why she normally eschewed the girth, and therefore the saddle: it was very fussy to get right, and the band had to be right or it would rub Soleil raw when he flew. At least the contents of the bucket kept him still while she made the many adjustments. Once the leather had been pulled tight, or as tight as she could manage, Gabrielle stepped back around to stand in front of the towering Soleil. Since his muzzle was back deep in the feed, she simply stepped over the pail and straddled his head, her arms holding onto his neck. "Eh, up. Up, please," requested Gabrielle.

Soleil obliged, and lifted his head. Gabrielle went from standing on the ground to sliding head-first down to the Abraxan's broad back. This was something that she had come up with on her own, and the maneuver was a lot easier than climbing the stall door and wall to reach his back, because there was no ladder. Gabrielle only used this method while she was inside the stall, because she was pretty sure it was a little ungainly-looking, if not actually comical. At least this time she was not in a skirt, which always required a quick rearrangement.

"I am ready now, Soleil," alerted Gabrielle. Since his head was down, however, her mount was clearly not. She would use a smaller pail next time.

"Gabby! Er -elle, there you are," said Abby as she peered around the edge of the stall's door. Soleil lifted his head high suddenly, and the dark-haired witch's face quickly pulled back. The Abraxan bobbed his head and whinnied.

"Yes, you are very fierce," said Gabrielle rolling her eyes. She leaned out onto Soleil's neck, gripping his mane. "Now let me down so I can, eh, find out what she wanted." As his massive head dipped again, Gabrielle swung out and hung from the animal's neck until she was able to drop down safely. The metal boots clanged loudly on the floor.

Gabrielle found Abby plastered against the side of the stall, her hand tightly gripping her wand. That, thought Gabrielle, was a little ridiculous. And, realistically, somewhat optimistic. Soleil had never really done a thing to Abby. "Really, there is no need for -" Gabrielle stopped, her mouth open.

"Professor Festeller sent me to find you, to bring you down to the crypt. We are ready to open it," said Abby. "He isn't coming out, is he?"

"Eh, what?" asked Gabrielle. "Nona's house is gone!"

"It is? Are you sure?"

"It was right there!" pointed Gabrielle. The grass where the cottage had been was still crushed. Gabrielle's first thought was to wonder when, and where, Nona had gone. Her second thought was more of a worry, and it was, who was going to do the cooking?

"We should inform Professor Festeller," declared Abby, tugging the still shocked Gabrielle away from the Abraxan's stall determinedly. The two witches were nearly running. Abby, thought Gabrielle, must really like Nona's cuisine.

v - v - v - v - v

To Gabrielle's eyes, little had changed inside the fallen tower, other than that the stone sarcophagus had been gouged from the wall, which was really the floor, and set onto the floor, which, of course, was actually a wall of the toppled tower. A large red lens mounted in a wooden frame stood nearby. The glass was as large as a platter. Beyond that, everything was still old, broken, and boring. Professor Festeller stood peering through the lens. Stanislaw stood next to him, gesturing at the glass. The protective footwear Gabrielle wore made the witches' arrival obvious.

"Ah. Mademoiselle Delacour, you are here, yes. We can begin," said the Professor with a clap of his hands.

"Begin?" asked Stanislaw. "What are you saying? There is still this Verkettung to untangle."

"Eh, Professor, sir, Nona's house is gone," reported Gabrielle. She wondered if declaring that she was not going to do the cooking would be prudent or just rude.

"Oh," replied Festeller looking perplexed. He turned to Stanislaw. "You will look, yes, into this?" Gabrielle calculated how much bread her handbag held. Without Nona, there was not only no one to do the cooking, but no Anthony either. No Anthony meant no supplies.

"Ja, ja. But this nonsense of beginning -"

"Mademoiselle Delacour will help, yes, there." Her professor gestured with an arm. "If you would, please, Mlle. Delacour."

"Eh, what?" asked Gabrielle. She had been following her own train of thought. No Nona meant no Anthony, no Anthony meant no supplies, no supplies meant no expedition. No expedition meant she could go home, with thirty galleons, and get an owl.

"What?" asked Stanislaw more forcefully. "What do you intend?"

"My dear Stanislaw, this is a school, a Beauxbatons, yes, expedition. As such, yes, she will help in the unsealing," explained Festeller.

"You are mad," said Stanislaw. "Ein kompletter Irrer."

The Professor replied in more German, which led to a discussion that became more animated as it continued. While they argued, Gabrielle looked through the red lens, standing on tip-toe to look through. It was one of the Thurlow lenses, and with it she could see glowing lines that covered the stone coffin. There was a patch of more intense brightness, where several of the lines crossed, right over one of the bronze straps, in the center.

Finally, Professor Festeller said something which clearly upset Stanislaw and which he vehemently denied. At length. When he wound down, he began calling out orders to his cohorts. The wizards arranged themselves near the ends of the tomb, wands out. Stanislaw sighed, and turned to Gabrielle. "Take out your wand," he ordered resignedly.

Gabrielle complied, pulling out her blond wand from where it hung around her neck. It was tangled with Nona's necklace, and Gabrielle did not bother to tuck the corroded-looking pendant away. She looked back at the shuffling noises behind her; the rest of the expedition were taking cover. Ha, she thought, and, under her breath, called out the spell to conjure a small ball of flame. The flames were not the angry yellow of a serious fire, but a cheery blue that was nearly harmless. Unless one dropped them in a field full of dried grass, for instance. Which had been an accident. The sound of gasps and more shuffling made her grin.

"_Finite__,_" grunted Stanislaw, and he extinguished the fire she spun with her wand. "And stop that cackling. This is no time to play."

"I do - not - cackle," declared Gabrielle. "What am I to do?"

"Herr Professor," sneered Stanislaw, "believes you, the Goblet's chosen, alone will be enough. I will show you the spell to break the seal. It is, I am reminded, a Beauxbatons expedition."

Break the seal? That - that was the kind of thing curse-breakers did, thought Gabrielle excitedly. Curse-breakers were cool. Bill Weasley was one, and she personally knew him. If she could do the spell, well, she would be a professional Seer and a curse-breaker. Aunt Laurel would just die when she found out, and Maman, knew Gabrielle, would make sure her sister did. Her own sister, thought Gabrielle, would be quite put out as well, because when Le Monde Magique printed the latest exploits of a daring Delacour, it would be Gabrielle and not Fleur that the front page was about. And it would be Gabrielle, properly, and not Gigi, or there would be no more exclusives for them!

A hand passed in front of her face, making Gabrielle startle. "Is it a Seer's trance?" asked Stanislaw. "Is it a vision?"

It was, considered Gabrielle, a vision of a sort, but probably not the sort he meant. More of a daydream, obviously. "Eh, no. I was just, eh -"

"Pay attention. Danger is always possible. And," warned Stanislaw before lowering his voice, "I may have found another piece of the staff. I will need you."

Gabrielle started to calculate the finder's fee she would get for one piece of the staff, but gave up when Stanislaw sighed again. She had been paying attention though. It was not as if the incantation was particularly difficult, nor was the wand movement to break the magical barrier. Gabrielle thought about that. She was not stupid. If that was all there was to curse-breaking, then what was all the fuss about? No, she decided, the problem was working out when to snap the wand up and towards oneself. She put the question to her, possibly, former nemesis.

Stanislaw was surprised by the query. "Very good, Fraulein Delacour! That is something which only years of experience can earn. The spell connects you to the work, and one must use it to feel about with, like a... a-"

"Like you do with the rake before using the diamond inside a lock?" asked Gabrielle. Merde, added a second thought.

The German wizard began laughing heartily, loudly. Gabrielle was not sure whether he approved or disapproved, but she blushed anyway, since she was sure everyone was looking now. Stanislaw, when he had composed himself, answered, "Yes. It is exactly that. Exactly."

The unsealing attempt was not a particularly impressive thing to see. Gabrielle and two wizards stood about a meter and a half from the metal-bound tomb. Each wizard had another behind him; Stanislaw stood behind Gabrielle and muttered in German. Since he had grunted Festeller several times, she did not worry about it. The wizard on her right raised his hand, then, after a moment, raised it higher. Then he waved it back and forth, which Gabrielle found somewhat odd.

"That is the signal to make the wand ready," said Stanislaw. "When he brings his hand down, you begin the spell."

"You, eh, never said that," said Gabrielle quickly, turning to give him a good glaring.

"It does not matter. The Verkettung, the nexus, is still tangled, as Klaus knows. The seal will not break," said Stanislaw quietly. "This has no point."

Gabrielle faced the tomb, annoyed. It may be pointless to him, thought Gabrielle, but this was her first curse-breaking job. Her future depended on it. She looked to her right and nodded confidently to the wizard. He rolled his eyes and raised his hand again. When he brought his hand down, Gabrielle started the spell,"_Rogande__!_" She felt...

Nothing. Gabrielle waggled the little wand back and forth, and it did not feel like anything had happened. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see the wizard on her left tugging at his wand, like it was tied to an invisible string. Like, remembered Gabrielle, Monsieur Toulier would describe his muggle fishing. Gabrielle guessed, dispiritedly, that she must have done the spell wrong. Or, suggested a second, more optimistic thought, her smaller wand was too far away. Gabrielle took a couple of steps forward, just in case.

"What are you doing?" demanded Stanislaw. Gabrielle ignored him, because she could sort of feel something now as she swept her wand back and forth. Definitely feel something. The sensation was very much like feeling around with a specially bent wire inside of a lock, only much larger. More like the long, thin pieces of metal her friend Philippe would use. It must, realized Gabrielle, be one of the glowing lines she had seen through the lens. All she had to do was to catch onto it. Somehow.

To accomplish that took Gabrielle another step closer, and one a little to the side to get a better angle. And to shrug off Stanislaw's hand - she needed to concentrate. Once the tip of her invisible, metaphorical, specially bent wire had found purchase, Gabrielle snapped her wand up. And nearly lost her grip on it as the tip would not lift in the slightest.

A sudden, loud snapping made her look to her left. The wizard there had stretched the bronze band at that end to its breaking point and beyond. The broken end flapped loosely above the stone top. The wizard still pulled hard at his thick wand though. A second, similar sound told Gabrielle that the band on the right end was now broken too. She could not do it, she realized. The corroded bronze strap in front of her was practically falling apart by itself, and she still could not budge it. Of course, both wizards had arms as thick as her leg, which made it easier for them. But, thought Gabrielle, I move a metric ton. She added her other hand to the one tugging the wand, and pulled harder. A second thought began to worry that the blond wand was stuck for good.

The stone sarcophagus, with its thick lid and banding, had been little more that a large school chest up until this point. A vaguely creepy school chest, Gabrielle could imagine it being Lucretia's, but it was not anything to cause alarm. That changed now that the bronze at the ends had been ruptured. The edges of the lid, many centimeters thick and roughly smoothed on the surface, rattled against the walls of the lower portion. Wisps of fine dust, or perhaps vapor, cascaded down the sides of the tomb, creating a fog at its base. Stanislaw moved closer to examine the phenomena, calling for Festeller. The wizards to either side of her continued their struggles. Gabrielle, whose arms were strongly protesting their current usage, felt that, if one looked very carefully, one could see a thin line of shadow under one edge of the center band. It was pathetic. There was no way she would get the metal to break. A kick from Soleil would have the rotten metal apart in no time, thought Gabrielle. A kick - the idea caught her attention, because while she did not have an arm as thick as her leg, she had a leg that was. It would, Gabrielle had to admit to herself, be cheating, but if she did it quickly while everyone was interested in the wisps, there was a reasonable chance that no one would be sure what had happened.

Metal over-shoe met metal banding, which was quickly followed by an ordinary shoe meeting the inside of a metal over-shoe. Since the ordinary shoe was full of toes, this was itself followed by a twinge of regret. And pain. But mostly regret, since the bronze had not broken completely. A jagged corner of the strap, torn where the corrosion had eaten nearly through, was bent up and outward. It looked very much like someone had kicked it. To add to the failure, her wand had lost its hold on the magic sealing the sarcophagus. A career in curse-breaking seemed very far away now.

That did not matter, though, for a couple of reasons. First, Gabrielle's quick, guilty glance toward her professor and Stanislaw revealed that the spell-casting wizard on that side had lost his grip on the magic also. Or perhaps he had managed to break through it, though he looked very surprised. Which might have been because of the second reason, and that was that the stone slab that topped the coffin had been thrown into the air, flipping like a knut used to decide who would try the potion first. The eruption destroyed the evidence of Gabrielle's actions completely, which was good, depending, of course, on where hundreds of kilos of rock landed.

"_Reducto__!_" boomed Stanislaw, turning the arcing slab into a slightly less deadly, but more widespread, heavy shower of crushed rock. From behind Gabrielle came the bright tinkle of something expensive shattering, and the general commotion from the rest of the expedition.

Gabrielle did not look, because in front of her, perched on the side of the stone container, having emerged from - inside - the stone the container, was... the vampire. What else could it be? It did not look like it had in her vision, but she was sure it was the vampire. The dark apparition before her was gaunt and shadowy, like it was lacking substance. And the creature, the vampire, was looking right at her, radiating hunger. "Maiden," the figure hissed.

Gabrielle found her herself unable to move, unable to jump aside. Her wand hung limp in her hand. She had not even time to scream when the unholy creature shot forward as if it was riding a Firebolt. Spells from either side of her flashed past the vampire, sailing through where it had been moments before. Gabrielle could see the ashen face and long canines of the vampire as it reached out to grab her.

A burst of brilliant radiance came from Gabrielle's chest, blinding her just as the expected impact came. Not exactly the kind of impact expected, though. It felt as if she had been jabbed with a finger, a finger that belonged, if it were possible, to an Abraxan. The blow hurt quite a lot, and sent Gabrielle flying backward, where she landed among the larger chunks of the stone slab and the needle-like shards of red glass. As the afterglow faded from her sight, Gabrielle tried to catch her breath. She was bleeding now - she could feel it drip along her neck. Laying atop the rubble was extremely uncomfortable, but moving was more so. Something was broken, Gabrielle was sure of that. She could hear Stanislaw shouting. To her horror, as she stared dazedly up at it, the roof above the sarcophagus, which had also been a wall once, collapsed. This provided sufficient motivation such that Gabrielle began an earnest, painful, and slow squirm toward safety. Or at least away from the disaster.

"Oh Merlin! Gabby! Are you alive?" Abby's angular features appeared above Gabrielle and were knitted in concern. "Are - you - alive?"

"Duh," panted Gabrielle since breathing deeply was painful. Did not the fact that she had been trying to flee make that obvious?

"Everyone has to get out," declared Abby. As if, thought Gabrielle, I wanted to stay, or even be here in the first place. "_Mobilicorpus__!_"

Gabrielle screeched as parts of her that should have been rigid shifted against themselves. Her chest felt like it was on fire, and she knew why her arms were not working - her collar bones were broken. And probably something else. Spots were dancing in front of her eyes now. Shock. At least, knew Gabrielle, it would not hurt when she was unconscious.

v - v - v - v - v

Gabrielle woke with her face in the grass and her knees tucked under her. It was a peculiar position, and not a comfortable one. Had Abby, wondered Gabrielle, just dropped her, thinking her dead? She flopped onto her side - an even less comfortable position, so she groaned her way onto her back. Gabrielle could see she was outside; there was dark sky above her through the tree branches.

Healer Fixelos leaned over Gabrielle holding a grayish-white something shaped much like a fat summer squash. "Oh. I was hoping to administer this before you woke," muttered the healer.

"Eh, what is that?" asked Gabrielle. She found that she could breathe better than before, which was very good.

"It's a preventative. I was told there was vampire involved," explained Fixelos with an odd enthusiasm. "Lucky for us there was plenty of garlic laying around."

"I was not, eh, bit," assured Gabrielle.

"You were bleeding from punctures on your back and chest. It is best not to chance it."

Gabrielle moved her hands to her chest. "Where are my clothes?" she asked. The lack of them was an unpleasant surprise. For Merlin's sake, thought Gabrielle, this is outdoors.

"They were all torn up. Now let's get you turned back over for the preventative."

"Is it a poultice?" The thing was the same color as Nona's gross, saliva-based cures after they had dried. Gabrielle could not imagine anyone modern using the same techniques.

"It's - it's like a pill."

"I can not swallow that!"

"I said it was - like - a pill. You take it internally, but it's not... swallowed," said Healer Fixelos. She wore the smile of someone who hoped the news would not sound as bad as it was. Gabrielle recognized it from her stays in hospital, and the hairs on the back of her neck went up. "You know what a suppository is?"

Gabrielle did. During one stay in a ward, a probably insane witch, being treated for Collasped Colon and Sphygmic Sphincter, all brought on by a nasty Puckering jinx, complained loudly, graphically, and at length about her treatment, no matter how convincingly Gabrielle pretended to be asleep. The experience made it obvious why people would pay extra for a private room. "I wasn't bit. I was - not - bit!"

"Hush," ordered the healer. She brought out her wand, and Gabrielle was arranged again face-down with her knees tucked under, and immobilized for good measure.

"Can you not shrink it with a spell?" cried Gabrielle desperately. Where, she wondered, was her wand? Faced, as it were, with this, she might have a knack for emergency apparition.

"I did shrink it," insisted Fixelos. "It's best that you try to relax." She placed a hand on Gabrielle's backside, and her patient howled.

"Now what has - Merlin im Himmel! Sorry. Sorry."

That was Stanislaw - Gabrielle was sure of it. Mon Dieu - who else could see her? There was nothing for it, though. "Help! Help me!"

"_Silencio__._"

"What is it you are doing to her?" asked Stanislaw, his voice further away and coming from behind a tree. "Can she ride that damned beast yet?"

"She needs rest, and I was about to administer the Vampiric Suppositus," explained Healer Fixelos. Not bit, thought Gabrielle intently, in case she could overpower the minds of others in a crisis.

"I don't believe she was bitten," opined Stanislaw. "We are to leave as soon as we can."

"I am not sure that she was not, Monsieur Sammlermacher. Better safe than sorry," argued the healer.

"I thought it was 'First do no harm.' At least use a spell to shrink dass Wurst."

"I already did!" snapped the healer. "The creature is sealed back up, is it not?"

"No one will go near its stall! She is the one who must deal with - "

"I meant the vampire."

"Yes, but there is no need to tempt fate. Better safe than sorry, as you say. The stall must be disassembled for transport. Now," insisted Stanislaw.

"No need to tempt fate, as you say," replied Healer Fixelos with a grunt of effort. Gabrielle's eyes crossed as the treatment commenced, her mouth framing a soundless scream.

v - v - v - v - v

Gabrielle staggered to Soleil's stall, dressed in her clothes that had been hastily, hastily and poorly, repaired and sagged against the thick wood of the gate. There was nowhere else to go, at least on this side of the camp. Nona's cottage had disappeared earlier, and Gabrielle's tent was gone now too. The thick-handled Dreadnought brooms were being loaded with boxes and bundles in a frenzy of activity. It seemed to Gabrielle that no one had much confidence in the resealing.

Gabrielle's awkward gait had been a true stagger as there was no way she could bring her legs together. Riding the massive colt seemed unimaginable. Gabrielle was very sure she had not been bitten. The stupid vampire had just crashed into her. Vampires, werewolves - Gabrielle could see why people disliked the undead. Zombies, though, in her experience, were all right.

Soleil's muzzle dipped over the gate and nudged her gently. The affection nearly toppled Gabrielle. A snuffle made Soleil rear up and twist away, neighing in panic. The colt kicked the gate for good measure. The tough wood of the stall withstood the hooves, but shook the gate strongly enough to send Gabrielle to the ground. Recently repaired bones rattled, and Gabrielle lay in the dirt aching. What, she wondered, was the point of it all? Weary tears of misery blurred her vision.

"He can smell the vampire on you," said Stanislaw. He was wearing his hip-waders again, and squeaked a little as he approached. Gabrielle did not bother to answer. Her tent had been packed up. Presumably that meant her things had been packed up as well. She was wearing clothes that Maman would have burned on sight after Healer Fixelos's excesses, but at least they covered her, and their condition matched hers as she lay in the dust. In a metaphorical sense, that is.

"The fault is mine," said Stanislaw quietly. "I should not have left my position." Gabrielle continued her silence as any sympathy at all would be welcome, and this sounded promising. "The seal should not have broken."

"The others should not have pulled so hard," accused Gabrielle. She gave up the quiet pathos to make sure her side of the story was heard.

The wizard said nothing for a while, appearing lost in thought. Gabrielle was beginning to feel a little embarrassed just laying there. Then Stanislaw removed the hat he wore and ordered, "Give me those clothes." He produced one of the white boxes from the hat.

"Eh, what?" Gabrielle rolled to her knees, winced, and gently stood upright with her feet wide apart. She started to dust herself off.

"No! Stop! Stop, please. Change into this; your things are already loaded."

"Change? Eh, where?" The obvious place was the stall, but Soleil was still agitated.

The answer to where came when Gabrielle had removed the awful gray shift from the box. Stanislaw transfigured the cardboard container into a tall privacy screen. "Pass me the clothes you have now before dressing. Do not transfer dust," instructed the wizard.

Gabrielle gave a huff of irritation at the orders. She really, really preferred to do any changing indoors. And, thought Gabrielle, of course Stanislaw would pick the worst of the outfits. He probably blamed her for the vampire disaster in the first place. A second thought suggested that his choice might have been mostly chance, since she had tried the gray horror on last and so it would have been on top of the others. Also, noted this thought, rather cruelly, he was the only one who was minding her in the bustle. A third thought wondered if he had meant - all - of her clothes. He had already seen her before; was - was he trying again? That thought cast a whole new spell on things!

Gabrielle did change out of her ruined clothes, though. With Soleil acting as he was, she did not have much choice. She just kept a firm grip on the privacy screen, at least when she could. Particularly when she was handing over her blouse and denims, in case the pervert tried to pull her protection away. A weird thumping noise delayed the moment she would have to don the shapeless garment that seemed to mock her as it hung on the screening. She peered carefully around the transfigured box. Stanislaw was swinging his wand to and fro. In response, her clothes, which hung in the air, shook violently, releasing clouds of dust that the wizard swept up into a twisting twirl. The swirling dust funnelled itself into a small glass jar. The denims, thought an annoyed Gabrielle, which might have been repairable, at least to her standards, will surely be finished after this. He does not, noted a second thought, appear interested in peeking.

"Ho ho!" cried Stanislaw suddenly. "Den Hauptgewinn!' He snatched at the dangling blouse.

"What is it?" asked Gabrielle, not able to withstand her curiosity.

Stanislaw turned and held up an invisible something. "Ah, Liebchen, it is hair from the vampire. Two hairs. Very valuable to the right collector." Her clothes collapsed to the ground.

"Eh, what is in the jar?"

"Dust, from the vampire also. Not very pure. If you had not fallen..."

"What do you, eh, do with that?" Falling had not been her fault.

"The dust from a vampire, it is often an ingredient in longevity potions," explained Stanislaw. He folded the hairs into a piece of parchment, tucking the package deep into the depths of the hip-waders.

"I, eh, thought those did not work," said Gabrielle. Professor Pleinbouillois had said that.

"One day, when you are older, fraulein, you may find the attempt worth making," replied the wizard. "Older and wealthier."

"Why would he pay four hundred galleons for the broken staff?" blurted Gabrielle. She had immediately thought of Herr Schnickywicky, or whatever, when he spoke.

Stanislaw laughed. "They have their reasons, Leibchen. Who am I to judge? Some believe that a wizard is born with only so much magic. When they are old, and feel their magic is fading, they hope to draw upon the magic left in things by others. Some simply wish to possess the rare and unusual, like a hair from an infernal creature. Others believe there is only do much magic in the world, and try to free the power from objects in their isolation. The first two are the best customers, the third keeps the market tight."

"I, eh, thought that magic came from the pumping of the wizard's... heart?" Or was it the lungs? Gall bladder? It had not seemed pertinent to potions, so she had not written it down.

"That philosophy does not lead to commerce."

"But would that not -"

"Can you ask your questions while dressing? The brooms are nearly loaded," interrupted Stanislaw.

Gabrielle sighed. She supposed she could not stand in her underwear all night. Especially outside. She would just have to avoid mirrors. The strange gray shift was not hard to put on, which was fortunate, since it was easy to quickly cover herself when the screen was jerked away. "Soleil, no! Stop! Why would you eat that?"

The huge colt ceased munching on the privacy screen, and shook his head, the screen flapping, before continuing to chew. Stanislaw slipped closer to the far side of the stall. Gabrielle shook her head as well. Montaigne would never do something so dumb. Soleil, she thought, had a lot of maturing to do. She bent to put her shoes on, trying not to see the fluttering, gray material that made her arms look bony, and reached for protective metal footwear. Gabrielle looked up when she felt eyes on her. Stanislaw was watching her closely. He had seen her again. She would have to say something, but what? Was he enthralled? "Eh..."

"Unglück. Heh. Heh heh. That buffoon Festeller," said Stanislaw, half to himself. "The boots, they are iron, correct? Nullified iron, I would say. Sebastian said you kicked the Verkettung just before the magic broke. I thought it nothing; Klaus thought it unglück. I see it now - a simple accident, and an interesting technique for the future."

"Eh, what?" He was not making much sense, but he did not, decided Gabrielle, seem to respect Professor Festeller much. She and Stanislaw had much in common. Except for the not making sense part.

"This... amulet. How did you come by it?" Gabrielle looked up again after getting her footwear sorted. Stanislaw had the corroded brown disc from Nona, and her wand.

"Nona made me wear it," answered Gabrielle. And, it had saved her. At least from the bite. She wished she had had something to ward off the suppository.

"Did she... give... it to you? It, ah, may be quite valuable. To some," hinted Stanislaw.

"Eh, no, I don't think she did." Of course, with Nona gone, how could she return it? But then, Nona could See. The old witch knew to make Gabrielle wear the pendant, and had known enough to leave before the vampire. She would certainly know how the item would come back to her.

"Best not to stir the hag up," said Stanislaw, disappointed.


	17. Uncorked

Chapter Seventeen - Uncorked

The flight was much shorter than the first, only a few hours in duration. Gabrielle sprawled prone on Soleil's back the whole way, in a very unladylike fashion, because of the healer's very unladylike 'treatment'. What, worried Gabrielle, was supposed to happen with that? It was probably too much to hope it just dissolved, or disappeared on its own. What if the shrinking spell, if there really had been one, wore off? She could explode!

The expedition flew north and west, heading back toward the sea. Gabrielle had instructed the Abraxan as to her condition, a condition made worse when Stanislaw had handed her not only the pendant and her wand, but a small brown bottle containing a dose of Skele-Gro. Soleil followed the expedition dutifully. Gabrielle was quite proud of him, and had decided to treat him to half a bottle of the single-malt liquor without adding oats, the way the adult Abraxans consumed the whiskey.

Gabrielle, who had ridden with her head on her arms clinging to the girth, had her first look at the new location once Soleil lowered her to the ground. It looked like a farm field. Gabrielle was standing more than knee-deep in - well, she was no expert, but it was probably a normal grain of some sort. The stems, at least, did not seem inclined to tangle her ankles. That excluded at least the more dangerous varieties of wheat. If it was wheat - she was no expert. Gabrielle wondered if Soleil was; he set to snacking immediately. Would the colt, wondered Gabrielle, know what he should not eat? Of course not, answered a second thought. He tried to eat the privacy screens before.

The site certainly did not look obviously magical, and it was certainly not hidden in any way either. How, worried Gabrielle, would she exercise Soleil unseen? A soft glow suddenly flooded the sky, hours before dawn. Gabrielle looked up at the light bobbing high above the new camp. She thought about trying to get one of her swirling flame balls to do that. Over a lake or pond, another thought quickly added, and definitely not over any kind of grass. Or grain. The new light revealed a surprise, which was only a surprise until one thought about it: Nona's cottage. At least, it looked like Nona's dour little house. Gabrielle felt pretty certain that it was, unless there was some sort of standard-issue house for Albanian witches. Part of Gabrielle was happy to see the crone's return; Nona had protected her from the vampire and had a crystal ball. A different part of her was disappointed; chores would take away from the dual careers of Seeing and curse-breaking.

The last time the expedition moved, confining Soleil had been the top priority. This time, possibly because the colt had found something to eat besides boxes and fragile instruments, much effort was being put into rocks. Stanislaw and his compatriots, all wearing the same sort of hip-waders, tended to large rocks, which lurched across the field with every flick of their wands. The rocks were quite large; Gabrielle could not see where they had found them. She also could not see why they were bothering with moving them when they could be setting up Soleil's stall and her tent. Gabrielle was very tired, sore, and achy in an uncomfortably quivering sort of way in certain parts.

The answer to her first question came when several rocks emerged from the ground nearby with a rumbling sucking sound, pushing aside the farmer's crop. A witch, dressed as a Catholic nun but wearing a bishop's hat, hurried over to examine them, then turned and hurried away even faster. That was due to Soleil also moving in to investigate the newly erupted shapes. Gabrielle waddled after Soleil to keep him from causing trouble, and because she was still tied to the colt by the tether.

The rocks were, it seemed, just rocks. Obvious to Gabrielle, but then she did suppose that boulders did not normally wrest themselves from the ground. Soleil lost interest after a brief snuffling. Two more rocks were being herded by her fellow curse-breakers - oh mon Dieu, thought Gabrielle, that was - so - cool to say! The two were passing closer this time. Gabrielle knew one was named Sebastion. They could, she speculated, be brothers. They had the same blond hair, at least. Gabrielle wondered if she should mention that Monsieur Toulier only used his hip-waders when he did his fishing.

"Schauen Sie, es ist ein Geist." One of the pair had paused, and pointed. Gabrielle turned to look behind her. Had he said ghost? There were several ghosts at Beauxbatons. There was one in the Bone tower that everyone called the Veil, because she liked to stand in doorways, forcing students to walk through her outstretched cloak. She would laugh at the chills she caused, gleefully warning them of their mortality. Gabrielle could see nothing though.

"Dumbkopf. Kannst du nicht sehen? Es ist Fraulein Delacour, Sammlermacher's maskottchen," laughed the second of the two. He waved, and said louder, "Guten morgen, Fraulein Delacour."

"Eh, Guten morgen," repeated Gabrielle politely. The two aimed their wands at her, which surprised her, since she thought that had meant 'good morning'. The reason for the reaction became clear a moment later, when Soleil began nibbling at her hair. She batted at the Abraxan's looming head absently. "What are you, eh, doing? With the rocks?"

"Schau dir das an," blurted the first speaker. "Es ist nicht natürlich."

"Sorry. Wir sprechen nicht Französisch," replied the second with a shrug of his shoulders.

"[Do you speak English?]" asked Gabrielle.

"[Yes. Of course. We do speak some,]" answered the second.

"[Eh, you are Sebastion?]" asked Gabrielle. He had recognized her, so he must have been the one to have witnessed her kick. And reported it to Stanislaw. She would have to watch out for him.

"[Yes,]" said the second wizard, sounding surprised. "[You know Adalhard also?]" He indicated the other wizard.

"[Eh, no. I am pleased to meet you,]" replied Gabrielle. It was something one had to say. "[What are you doing wizz ze rocks?]"

"[We make der Umfang... mmm... circle. For the ward. You understand?]" explained Sebastion.

"[Yes,]" said Gabrielle. She knew, at least, about warding posts, if not how to make them. "[Ze, eh, Weasley home has ze -]"

"Was ist los?" barked Stanislaw. He approached making a wide arc around Soleil. "Holen Sie sich die Felsen gelegt." He turned to Gabrielle and ordered, "The stall is ready. Lead the devil to it."

"Soleil is not a devil," defended Gabrielle loyally. "He is just young." She took hold of the halter to lead Soleil in the direction Stanislaw's outstretched arm, and began to waddle away.

"Visit the healer, liebchen. You were not bit," called out Stanislaw.

Gabrielle doubted the healer would be much help, since the witch believed otherwise. Was that, pondered Gabrielle, an order? Did she have to follow it? She did sort of work for Stanislaw, in a way. And she had sworn on her wand, although that was a pledge to help him, not the reverse.

The problem with leading Soleil was that Gabrielle could not do it if her feet did not touch the ground. If something piqued the colt's interest, he simply raised his head. Since Gabrielle was holding the halter, this also lifted her, and left her dangling until the Abraxan decided to be led again. Thank Merlin for the metric ton. Progress was slow, and Gabrielle did not like the way wands were raised at her, but she and her mount reached the stall with a minimum of commotion, and only two kicks. One had been aimed at a tent into which several of the other wizards and witches had fled. The other was directed at a box; it had made distressingly tinkly noises when the crate finally stopped tumbling. Gabrielle reconsidered her idea of rewarding the colt as he high-stepped away from the scene of the crime, he whinnying like he was laughing and her swinging wildly.

The stall was at the edge of the perimeter marked by the lumpy boulders, and not far from Nona's cottage. Soleil did not mind entering his shelter, having once more reinforced his dominance over the camp by defeating some inanimate objects. A job well done, thought Gabrielle, in his own mind, no doubt. She gave him the whiskey straight up. It was almost funny the way sniffed at it, like he did not know what to do, and it - was - funny when his first drink jolted him into the air.

Nona's cottage, windows yet unlit, was there, and Soleil's stall was there, thought Gabrielle, so her tent should be... Well, assumed Gabrielle, it should be there, hopefully soon. She wanted to get some sleep, if that would be possible with the leaden weight in her gut. Stanislaw had told her to see the medi-witch, but in her experience healers did not undo treatments. They usually added another, which, given where the first one was, was not something to risk lightly.

On the other hand, healers were also usually very practical. They stuck to things that worked, like, unfortunately, Skele-Gro. So, reasoned Gabrielle, if it came to a choice between believing that the vampire had not bitten her or Soleil running wild because the preventative, eh, prevented her from keeping control of him... Well, dangling from the halter had helped her case there. Another kicked tent would have been good too. Soleil, sighed Gabrielle, would decide now to be mostly well behaved.

The healer's tent was not hard to find. It sported a new, but rather dirty and slightly tattered, banner of snakes turning around a wand, which flew from the center pole. Gabrielle thought its condition out of character for Healer Fixelos, but then she decided that the flag had probably come with the tent. It had just not been put up before, having been overlooked because of Soleil's wanderings. Gabrielle slipped into the tent quietly, in case Healer Fixelos looked as if she was busy, or annoyed, or stressed. Or anything else that would put her in the mood to poke at Gabrielle's bottom without removing the ridiculous intrusion. What had Stanislaw said? Best not to stir the hag up. Which was, a second thought reminded sheepishly, really not a nice thing to say.

Gabrielle did not get further than the tent flap. The inside of the tent was, of course, larger than the outside dimensions. The tidy rows of cots which had previously taken most of the room were gone. Or, perhaps, they were hidden behind the mounds of clutter that had appeared. There were ominous wooden frames, made so by the dark leather straps they featured, and up-ended tables that did not seem to have obvious restraints. There was a whole heap of glassware; the tottering pile seemed a very poor way to store it. Large bell jars held animals of all sorts, dead and floating in colored fluids. These were stacked in lopsided pyramids next to cabinets that appeared made for them. It looked more like the potions lab in school than an infirmary. Everything was dusty! The mess made Gabrielle concerned about her own things, which had been packed up within her tent too. She did not have nearly as many things as Healer Fixelos had, but there was a certain wax replica under her bed over which she would just die if anyone happened to see.

The sound of breaking glass attracted Gabrielle's attention. A short wizard with a halo of wispy white hair and a stubbly white beard stood in the doorway to the personal quarters, a shattered vial at his feet. Short, judged Gabrielle, was not quite the right word. Shrunken seemed more correct, shrunken with age. The surprise on his face tightened to irritation. An equally old-looking house-elf appeared at the wizard's feet, arms and hands full with mop, bucket, broom, and dust pan. It reminded Gabrielle of Geff, who lived at the Burrow now.

"Bitte Blakig, Sie sind unverletzt?" asked the elf, gathering the glass.

"Ja, ja du alter Frau. Das Geist erschreckt mich," muttered the old wizard.

"Ja Meister. Was Geist?"

"Das Geist der Haustür! Sie sind die Augen, als wie ich getrübt?" Snapped the ancient wizard as he pointed to Gabrielle. She sighed. It was that strange dress, she knew it now. The gray fabric of the shift was constantly moving and fluttering of its own accord, which lent an air of etherealness, of insubstantiality, that Gabrielle could not imagine ever wanting. "Eh, excuse me, please. Is Healer Fixelos in?"

The house-elf paused in his mopping to exchange German with the wizard. Then the elf addressed Gabrielle. "Pardon Blakig, mistress. Healer Leistenverletzunger knows not this Fixelos, and, with respect, asks that you haunt quietly."

"Eh, what?" What did he mean that he had not heard of Fixelos? There was a new healer? Gabrielle was sure the medi-witch had left with the expedition. Had she quit during the flight? Gabrielle was also sure she would not want to haunt this tent, if she was a ghost, since there was barely room to walk. Of course, added a less useful thought, that would not present much trouble for an actual spirit. "Also, I am, eh, not a ghost." Though the reflection that she could see in the glass of the cabinet made her less confident. It had to be because of the poor lighting, hoped Gabrielle, that her face was so gray. She would change as soon as possible. And burn the shift.

The assertion was relayed to the decrepit healer by the fussing house-elf. Healer Leistenverletzunger, noticed Gabrielle, wore proper wizarding robes, a drab green set that was a little frayed at the sleeves and a bit behind the style. He even wore a traditional, pointed wizarding hat, something one rarely saw outside of formal occasions. And Gabrielle could also not help noticing that he was, well, a he, which meant dealing with her problem would likely be very embarrassing. The old wizard shuffled over to her, as she tried to imagine him in muggle clothing, and prodded her shoulder speculatively with a thick middle finger.

"Pardon Blakig, mistress. Healer Leistenverletzunger agrees that you are not a ghost," announced the house-elf finally.

"Eh, that is good to know. Thank you," said Gabrielle, a defensive smile on her face so the man would not attack. She backed up to the tent flap slowly while the translations were made. She had decided to ask Nona about her problem, even if that help would probably involve spit.

"Pardon Blakig, mistress. What are you called? The master thinks you are familiar."

Was I not, thought Gabrielle, just a ghost before? He must be insane. "I am Gabrielle Delacour. It is, eh, nice to have met you, eh, of course, but I should go. Now," replied Gabrielle. She could not find the opening to the tent flap behind her, even thought she had just walked through it.

While the wizened wizard repeated her name several times to himself, Gabrielle discarded subtlety and turned to search for the exit, feeling with her hands. What, she wondered when she still could not find it, was the meaning of this? She pulled out the little wand from the ribbon around her neck, and tried to decide what to do. A tent was like a box; she could transfigure it into a giant teapot. That did not sound very useful, but a giant teapot would have a giant spout to escape through. Fire would certainly have an effect, especially with so much clutter, but whether that would ever be the right idea was hard to know. Ah, remembered Gabrielle, of course - the spell she had used before, that gave her the magical specially bent wire. She would feel for the seal, then pull it open! Eh, how did it go? Gabrielle tried to remember the incantation. She had not had much practice at it, and being attacked by a vampire would make anyone forget the fine details.

Success was achieved on nearly the first try, if one ignored the third attempt which, of all things, conjured an eel. The poor thing writhed on the floor, but without an escape route the only thing Gabrielle could do for it was to vanish it. Considering what she normally spent her time vanishing, she felt that that might be a fate worse than death. The magic finally caught on the hidden flap. There was no time to lose: the lunatic healer was approaching with what looked like a giant's rusty corkscrew, and Gabrielle could easily see what was intended. That was - not - going to happen! She hauled back on her wand, the tent's opening once more revealed, then froze at the sound of fingers snapping.

It was the treacherous house-elf. "Pardon Blakig, mistress. You are Mademoiselle Delacour, and Herr Sammlermacher wishes the master to remove the vampire treatment."

v - v - v - v - v

Gabrielle lay sandwiched between two mattresses, wishing there was a third on top, a reassuring bulk to insulate her from the horrors of good intentions. She was aching, horrified that she even had a lower half to her body, and desperate for a really hot shower, if she could only face the world. Nothing had prepared her for the extraction; what could possibly preface the most horrible, mortifying procedure ever? It was not the considerable pain so much as the indignity. Healer Listen-for-it was dangerously insane. The ordeal was made so much worse as the house-elf dutifully translated every one of the ancient wizard's muttered comments about, observations of, and compliments to her nether regions. Trapped as she had been, Gabrielle had been close to panic, and tensed at the old lecher's every touch. Which, unfortunately, did not make the intended procedure any easier.

Stanislaw had found her staggering around by Soleil's stall, searching for her tent. Gabrielle was not sure what to make of the wizard anymore. He had had her tent placed next to his, nearer the main part of the encampment. A rise in status, acknowledged Gabrielle to herself - thirty galleons - but further from the protection that Soleil, and Nona, provided. What if Stanislaw was enthralled? The German wizard had also proudly told her that he had dismissed Healer Fixelos, saying that the young witch, in 'typical fashion', was only interested in healing the interesting afflictions she had read about in books, while cuts and broken bones were far more common in camp. He had added burns to that list with a look, but Gabrielle ignored that. It had been Stanislaw who had invited the creepy old healer, who was apparently more of potions master than an actual healer, having picked up the basics of the art in the field during Grindelwald's war. Gabrielle could say nothing because she was absolutely appalled that this so-called healer had been rooting around inside of her, while at the same time she was baffled that Stanislaw thought she would be relieved at hearing this. At least when all the night's happenings were reported to Papa, relished Gabrielle, this will all be over.

All the night's happenings, however, took time. So much so that it was not actually night anymore, but morning. Barely. Which meant that a pair of worn, sensible yet severe shoes were in front of her and Nona was pulling off the mattress. Gabrielle wondered if she had even fifteen minutes of sleep. "Të vijë, fëmijë. Nuk është puna."

v - v - v - v - v

"Can't you just take your knickers off? It's not like Ron hasn't seen your fanny before, right?" asked Ginny. She was peering into the shadows behind a skip redolent with the aroma of the sea - it stank of fish. Wizarding, mused Harry, was not a particularly glamorous way of life. he cast a Bubble-Head charm.

"Do you know what's going on?" asked Harry, addressing George. It was a rhetorical question, really, as Fred must have managed a little retribution. Ron and Hermione had landed behind the skip directly, and stayed there.

"I don't think that was just water that Fred doused her with," said George with a grin. He was enjoying his sister's exasperation.

"You're not - Merlin, Hermione! I think I preferred the prim 'n' proper swot. This is too much Lavender and not enough Head Girl."

"Can you undo it?" asked Harry. Ginny neatly dodged a hex that sent up a cloud of brick dust when it hit the wall on the other side of the wall. Well done, he thought.

"Wouldn't dream of it," replied George. "I've two galleons that she goes for the Bat-Bogey."

"Go on. That's odds on!"

"I wondered why you two were wearing robes! Try a severing curse," suggested Ginny.

"Not on my Firebolt!" thundered Ron.

"What, then, would you suggest, Ron?" demanded Hermione.

"Let's fly back, find Fred, and twist his bloody head off."

"Sounds smashing, but I was hoping for a more, er, immediate solution. I don't fancy walking around with this stick between my legs all day."

"You don't have to walk, you can fly."

"Shut up, Ron."

"I'll bet if it was a certain someone's 'stick' you wouldn't mind." teased Ginny.

"Shut up, Ginny."

"Oy, what 'bout that spell? The one, you know, when I use that muggle glue on my wand?" suggested Ron.

"Yes, well, it's a little hard to aim, you see," admitted Hermione.

"I know the spell. I'll do it," said Ginny brightly. "Ron, steady the bristles."

"Here it comes, Harry," nudged George.

"What? What's coming?" asked Harry, the words barely out of his mouth before there was an odd ripping sound and a shriek from Hermione that left his ears ringing.

"That's done it, I think," crowed Ginny. "And look, Ron. Your Firebolt has a full beard!"

"Bloody hell, Ginny!" shouted Ron.

"Get ready now," advised George. "I think the cauldron's a bit too hot."

"Right," said Harry, although what he should be readying to do was not obvious. Beyond, of course, having his wand in his hand.

It definitely was getting a little hot behind the skip. Ginny blocked something purple and nasty-looking using, Harry noted enviously, a non-verbal shield. At least, it looked like the redhead had blocked it, except that she disappeared in a swirl of orange sparks. Harry did not think it was another portkey. He started forward as Hermione emerged from her hiding spot using a wide-legged gait. She stooped to pick up a red and black newt by the unexpected tuft of red fur it sported, at least until it was sliced off with a stroke of Hermione's wand.

"A good strong block will do right by you if you're playing for time, or want to talk," critiqued George. "But, you need to know what you're blocking. Ginny was tricked by the feint. Better to apparate as your first move. Strong spells can counter others too, if you can keep up with your opponent. Blocking is mostly an auror thing."

"Erm, right. Yeah," said Harry automatically. The newt shuddered for a moment, and suddenly became a very livid Ginny whose hair was very, and unevenly, cropped.

"You, you bloody cow!" exploded the youngest Weasley. She began flinging spells into the sheltered space. The target of her outrage appeared with a bang behind Harry. Ron tumbled forward onto the ground, covered in pustules, small bats emerging painfully from his nostrils, and with his limbs quivering jelly-like with spasms.

"Hermione's got it," praised George. "Shame about Ron. Not." Ginny spun on her heel to launch a new wave of hexes, but stopped as George added in a hush, "We're being watched."

v - v - v - v - v

To the north of Vierville-sur-Mer is the Boulevard de Cauvigny, which runs along the top of the high bluff overlooking the beach. It is not unusual for people, particularly of an older generation, to pause along the road and stare out over the sands. They are, perhaps, contemplating another time, a time when they, or their loved ones, struggled ashore in an invasion. They are, almost assuredly, not contemplating, or even noticing, the much, much smaller invasion that was underway below. They would not be marvelling at the little fishing boat run so far aground that one would have to doubt that the propeller was the only motivating force. The solemn observers would not be noticing the garb of the two men who had exited the craft, the most notable aspect of which were the hugely over-sized trousers held up with a double set of suspenders. The watchers above, lost in the thoughts of another era, would not be becoming concerned at the obvious distress of one of the men. No one on the bluff, looking out to the Channel's gray waters, would notice these things. Unless they happened to be a witch or wizard also.

No one on the beach paid any attention to these odd things either, including the two men mentioned before. As wizards, as followers of the Dark Lord, they had scant knowledge of, and little interest in, the limits of a steel propeller. The twisted blades somehow made the boat move through the water; therefore, the two concluded, it should work on sand, sand being like water as it could be poured. Neither man found their dress odd; both believed that a tight fit about one's privates had to be avoided lest a constriction of the body's vital humours result. Finally, neither of the wizards were concerned about the distress. That was because the one in distress was too busy retching onto the sand to bother, while the other was too pleased that dissolving the wrong end of a Puking Pastille into the sea-sickness potion had worked so well. Their conversation was... intermittent.

"Can you even fly a broom with a weak stomach like that?" asked Rowle.

"I've no problem flying. It's the damned boat," complained Dolohov. There was a colorful pause. "Muggle contraption. Should've magicked the bloody thing so it didn't go up and - ulp."

"No, no, couldn't do that. If you don't go up with the wave, then you're sinking. If you don't go down with the water, well, that's called flying. Neither is something you want a proper boat to be doing," chided Rowle.

"All I want is for it to burn."

"Pull yourself together, man. We're on land now anyway."

"What did I ever eat that was that color?" muttered Dolohov, still hunched over.

Thorfin Rowle laughed. This was the most fun he had had in ages, since watching the muggles run from the collapsing stadium. Dolohov was too bloody single-minded to be much of a travelling companion. Still, it was best to put things right before the ruse was discovered, because of what Dolohov would whisper of in his sleep. "Here, give the right half of a Puking Pastille a try. Had one meself before we left."

"Muggle-lovers and blood-traitors, they are." It would have been far more sinister if it at not been bracketed by gurgling heaves.

"I'd swear you're getting worse! We'll be damn easy to track what with you leaving great puddles of sick like that."

"Your doing we're here," complained Dolohov, reluctantly taking the half.

"You wanted to find Potter, right? Well, he's most likely with the Weasleys, and now no one knows where they are. Got to be a Fidelius, am I right?" prompted Thorfin.

"Could have grabbed the father," insisted Dolohov. He braced for another round of vomiting, and was surprised to find his stomach willing to stay at the bottom of his throat.

"Nick a department head? And get away? That would take too much time to put together. This way's more cunning, if I do say so myself. That Fidelius had to go up after the wedding, and there's always at least one guest you can't get rid of," explained Rowle.

"Wouldn't know, never been to a wedding," said Dolohov, cautiously standing up.

"What? Not even been invited?"

"Azkaban's not known for its prompt owl post."

Rowle broke the silence that followed with a cough and said, "Lucky for us that one was foreign, and portkeys are issued by the Ministry."

"They are the worst - consorting with mudbloods, hiding Potter, and now marrying a foreign half-breed!"

There were many ways to describe the Delacour girl, but Rowle, who had saved the Prophet's pictures from the Tri-Wizard Tournament, would not have ever thought of that one. Everyone knew Azkaban took a lot from a man, but that much? "Let's just get off this beach and find this Yvette witch."

v - v - v - v - v

"What? Where are they?" asked an alarmed Harry Potter. He turned to face the street which the alley opened onto.

"Up on the roof," nodded George with a bare movement. All eyes to skyward, except Ron's. His eyes crossed. "But please don't worry about making it obvious we've spotted them."

"I don't see anyone," said Ginny.

"You wouldn't if you're looking for a human," said George. "You wouldn't have that cloak of yours handy, would you Harry?"

"What, the pigeons?"

"One of them, at least, yes," replied the older Weasley. He reached into his shirt and fumbled for something.

"You've gone all Mad-Eye on us," accused Ginny.

"Which one?" wondered Harry. There were birds perched up there. Behind him, Hermione was using her wand. If he remembered the movements right, it was an anti-apparition ward.

"The one looking at us funny - well, funny for a bird," supplied George. "I've got a smoke-bomb; get the cloak on when we're covered."

"Right! What are you going to do?"

"I'm going to set off the smoke-bomb. I did say," deadpanned George.

"I meant - after - that."

"Probably be choking and rubbing my eyes - this is one of Fred's."

"George - "

"Petrificus Totalus! The bloody lot of you!" This was from Ron, who was still on the ground on his back, and so had the best angle on the avian threat. George set off the smoke-bomb.

It was a very good smoke-bomb, filling the gap between the buildings with a thick grayness that pushed out most of the breathable air. The plume curled above the sky of Salerno, and made a hasty retreat to the building's flat roof necessary. Once, of course, everyone had been found in the blinding smoke and been paired up on brooms. One awkward situation found Ginny and Hermione sharing a broom. The other found Harry sharing Ron's broom, with his hand finding, and him figuring out, just what was stuck to the Firebolt. Fortunately, the paralyzed birds provided something to look at, so no one had to meet another's eyes.

After, however, suitable shelter had been hurriedly arranged. The large cloud of very thick smoke brought a large crowd of very concerned muggles to the scene. The wail of sirens could be heard getting nearer. While the smoke could have been dispersed with the wave of a wand, the mysterious appearance of the cloud would only be more suspicious if it were coupled with an equally mysterious disappearance. Fortunately, a wizarding tent is extremely easy to pitch. Along with the normal anti-muggle and Notice-Me-Not charms, the tent was disillusioned. That made getting into it more difficult, but that only had to happen once.

The fowl were mostly paralyzed - one bird was definitely rocking itself. Ron put an end to that with a stunner. Up close, Harry could see that there was something different about the bird. It was the eyes, which faced more forward than on the other birds. How, he wondered, had George spotted that from three-stories below? And, how had whoever, or whatever, this pigeon was found them?

"So... it's an animagus?" guessed Ginny.

"No, I don't think so," said Hermione, holding her wand over the stunned bird. "He or she did not seem too aware of what was happening. An animagus would have been more conscious of our actions, less dull."

"What, with that incredible subtlety you all showed?" asked George sarcastically.

"Also, it's not really a pigeon, is it? The eyes are set more like an owls, and the head is a little too large. It's most likely someone who has been trans- er."

"You would know about - er - wouldn't you?" sniped Ginny. She ran her fingers through the remains of her hair.

"Who sent it? That's the question," said Harry quickly. "How did they manage to find us?"

"There's lots of possibilities, actually," noted Hermione. "There's You-Know-Who, obviously. The French and Italian ministries, too. There's even international entities!"

"Nah," said George. "The question is do we wake our feathered friend there, undo the spell, find out who it is, and risk having whoever's friends show up, or do we tie it to a post and scarper?"


	18. Not Yours

Chapter Eighteen - Not Yours

Gabrielle's awful night turned, if it were possible, into an even worse morning. Which was not possible, since there were no vampires in the morning, although there were a lot of potatoes. It depended, Gabrielle supposed, on when one considered morning to have begun. The vampire had been terrifying, but it had not managed to bite her, and then she was cruelly cured of the non-bite. All that had clearly been at night. If the cure of the cure, and the terrifying healer involved, were moved to the morning, then it was possible for the morning to be worse. If that were true, though, then it would imply that she thought it reasonable to be up that early in the morning. Which Gabrielle did not, especially when she had not gotten any sleep. There were aesthetic considerations too, ruminated Gabrielle. All together the night would have a terrible symmetry: creepy old thing, painful in, painful out, creepy old thing. That made it seem natural to consider the ordeal one long horror show, a new low-water mark to compare the past and future to. Gabrielle decided that that was best, if for no other reason than the list of the bad would be one shorter. Also, that way of thinking meant that the day was already better! Even with the potatoes, which Nona needed many of, and which needed peeling and dicing. There was nothing wrong with potatoes, of course, thought Gabrielle. Maman's potato mousse dish was a favorite. But with every meal? That could not be good for -

Thwock! "Kushtojnë vëmendje."

Gabrielle glowered. There was no need for the ladle. She had been paying attention, or would have been if she had not taken one measly moment for herself. Between the piled tubers, Soleil's brushing, and meal clean-up she had not had a chance to rest or even think. Now she was seated on the stupid barrel at the table, staring at the crystal ball with Nona's second customer of the day. Another elderly muggle, from the looks of the woman. Where, wondered Gabrielle curiously, did Nona find them? And what, wondered a slightly rude thought, would she do for customers in another decade or two? The camp was made on a farmer's field, so it was close to the farm. Gabrielle had seen some of the buildings when she had checked on the Abraxan colt. The buildings were oddly familiar, but then most farms looked about the same to her eyes. The farm, in turn, had to be close to a town. Which would probably mean a lot more customers - Gabrielle vowed to find herself a cushion, or to put one of the chairs from her tent into her handbag. Then at least her legs would not keep -

Thwock! "Kushtojnë vëmendje, fëmijë."

Gabrielle gritted her teeth. The old crone had begun her chant, and Gabrielle had missed it. Watching Nona work at the crystal ball was at least pertinent to her education, if not sufficient compensation for the chores. And, lately, Gabrielle had come to believe that she was doing more than just watching. Her professor, Madame Sombrevoir, had spoken of 'etheric resonances'. It was how crystal balls worked. The professor had encouraged the class to keep an eye out for unusual, odd-shaped rocks or interesting bones and shells. Gabrielle's roommate Lucretia had a necklace of mouse skulls that she had made herself, but most found it easier to buy amulets and bracelets. Gabrielle had two necklaces with gemstones and crystals, because Maman liked to shop. Gabrielle did not think that those helped since they were not the ones she had wanted. Nona, Gabrielle now suspected, was using her as an odd-shaped rock, as a way to -

Thwock! This time Gabrielle had had enough. Before the ladle could move off, Gabrielle snatched it out of the air and threw it to the ground with a loud clatter. She was a professional Seer too. More or less. At least the one time. And she deserved to be treated with respect! "I am not an odd-shaped rock!" Gabrielle thundered, jumping to her feet.

The intent, at least, was a thunderous declaration. It was bit more screechy than that. Actually, it was quite a bit screechier than that, and it was in the wrong language. The ladle lay on the ground with its handle bent, looking pitiful in an accusing sort of way. The two old woman stared at Gabrielle silently with small, patient smiles that said to her, in Maman's tired voice, that it was just a phase, that it came with puberty. Gabrielle turned away, a blush racing up her neck. She was embarrassed by the outburst, and annoyed that it had been such a sad spectacle. Not an odd-shaped rock - stupid! "I, eh, I will, eh, make some tea," announced Gabrielle to the hearth. She just knew the door would be sealed, and was not going to add to her miserable performance by struggling with it.

Gabrielle did not even like tea, but it gave her something to do that did not involve having to face the two women. She did wish the brewing process was louder, though, because she could hear the pair quietly talking. Quietly discussing, more than not. Part of Gabrielle wished she knew more Albanian; the other part wished she knew absolutely none. She was certainly tired, they had that right, and there was a lot of 'punë'. That might have meant chores, or it might have meant potatoes. It was hard to tell since they were much the same for her.

The kettle boiled and whistled. Gabrielle poured the water into the teapot, and gathered three cups - all done while studiously keeping herself turned away from the reproachful eyes she knew would be watching. Gabrielle knew she was running out of prep work, that she would have to turn around and sit. She wondered who she would have to watch die this time. Nona's first visitor had been a thickly built, alarmingly hirsute widow. Her husband had been lost at sea, in an accident. Gabrielle knew this because the crystal ball had shown the fishing vessel's engine exploding, and the jets of water from the pierced hull. The man had died because he had tried to drag the broken body of a fallen crew member with him. It was horrible when the boat capsized and the water closed in. Gabrielle had found herself gasping and near panic, with her chest hurting from holding her breath. It was a completely awful vision, but the widow had gone off happier for it. She might have lost her senses along with her husband.

The tea was ready, so there was nothing left for Gabrielle but to take a deep breath, turn, and carry the tray to the table. Where she would be Nona's odd-shaped rock, or stare into her cup and try to become invisible.

"Ne do të fillojë përsëri," said Nona firmly. That, Gabrielle thought, might mean it was time to get started, or that she should have brought the honey to the table. It would depend on whether there was another ladle.

v - v - v - v - v

Harry Potter and company had decided to avoid entanglements and slip away from the still unconscious pigeon. The concerted effort quickly turned into a troll fire drill, since, for safety's sake - constant vigilance! - everyone had been disillusioned before leaving the tent. That, however, meant that no one could easily see the person they were supposed to be helping, nor the thing they were supposed to be helping with. Ginny might have been able to see through the spells a bit, since Hermione was tripped up a couple of times.

At least following George on his broom was easy. It was not pleasant though. He was using Poo-Fume to mark his trail. The gagging made it simple for Harry and Ron to steer clear of each other in flight. They flew low over the Italian countryside for cover, staying clear of towns and villages. As far as Harry could tell, they were heading due east, roughly following an arterial roadway.

They stopped on the far side of the regional capitol of Potenza. It made Harry wonder, again, if he had been too dismissive of Moody's mania for planning. They had plenty of francs, but now the currency was lire. Hermione had some idea of the exchange rate, but doubted the local bake shop would take the francs. Ron had trouble seeing the problem. He asked, "If it's not gold, then all that's different is a bit of ink, right?" That earned him Hermione's attempt to explain the muggle international monetary system, which led Ron to appreciate the goblins a great deal more. Going to a currency exchange in Potenza, however, meant facing flocks of pigeons, any one of which could be a spy. Which was exactly the sort of thing Mad-Eye would go on about, thought Harry in chagrin.

Starving was not about to happen right then, probably not for weeks. Mrs. Weasley had provisioned the travelers with a small mountain of ham rolls. No one would go hungry, not even Ron, but Harry had to admit that the food was getting a bit stale already. That was fine for him, a childhood at the Dursley's giving him little better, but he had the odd thought that he ought to do better by Ginny. It was too late for a preservation charm, though.

Which Hermione asked about, and for which Harry had no excuse other than he had never even thought of it. George then provided his recipe for sandwich soup, transfiguring a rock into a bowl and conjuring hot water. "The bread softens right up and makes a broth, see? Like it's fresh again."

Ginny looked at him incredulously. "This is what you eat, is it, now that you're on your own? Mum's leftovers minced in water?"

"Not all the time," said George defensively. "It's not like I can pop down to the Hogwarts kitchens when I'm busy in the workroom. Anyway, there's always a chip shop or pub open."

"No wonder Mum wants to set you up! That's pathetic."

"Hah! You're wrong there, dear sister. Can you imagine Batty working at a stove?" retorted George.

"Batty? You mean Matty, your date at Fleur's wedding, right?" asked Hermione.

"Batty, Matty. Batty Matty. You can call her whatever you want, 'cause I'm not."

"I see. You prefer the kind of girl willing build architectural wonders out of breakfast meats, huh?" teased Ginny.

"My point is that a wizard has an easy time of it when roughing it," explained George, ignoring Ginny. "Ever heard of Muncible's Digestible Sieve?"

"Yes. It separates the edible portion of something from the whole," replied Hermione. "It can be a bit ghastly."

"Wot, like taking the peel off an orange? What's ghastly 'bout that?" puzzled Ron.

"More like liquefying the orange into two puddles; one you can eat, the other you shouldn't. Now picture the same thing but using a cow," cringed Hermione. "And, it... has a liberal definition of digestible."

"Just the thing for a curry gone off," enthused George. "You use the extracted bits as the source of matter in conjuring a new curry. Bloody brilliant, if I do say so myself."

"Isn't that a bit much? From what I've read the spell is quite involved, and can take hours. You need several pinches of zeolite mineral as well."

"Well, yes, all right, there is that," admitted George.

"Hours?" burst Ginny. "You could get down to the Leaky Cauldron and back sooner."

"Look, when you're in the middle of -"

"How can you be in the middle of things when you've got time to mess with moldy take-away?"

"Thinking and planning of -"

"Oh, right. Took bleeding days to come up with Poo-Fume, I'm sure," dismissed Ginny.

"Counting galleons - that takes quite a lot of time too," boasted George.

"Oh? And what is that supposed -"

"I think," interrupted Harry loudly. "I think that gull is giving us the, erm, eye." This was, of course, true because they had food and it was a gull. But it was a good way to derail the coming Weasley battle. Anyway, Ginny might scoff, but Harry had copied George's actions, and the soup was good. Not that he would mention that now.

v - v - v - v - v

Gabrielle stomped back to her tent, her protective footwear giving a very satisfying stomp. Someone had neatly combed flat the farmer's crop within the camp's boundary, which made the stomping more obvious. She wanted to make it clear that the next stupid person who said something stupid would have their toes broken. Which would not work, of course, if that stupid person was stupid Festeller again, since she would still have classes with him and professors could hold grudges. Even if they were not much hurt and you had apologized.

The professor, if that was what he really was, sniffed Gabrielle, had blamed her for the vampire fiasco! As if it was not obvious now that the markings on the bronze bands had been bats, and not hour-glasses at all. He should have known that. He was supposed to be the history expert, thought Gabrielle, not her. Festeller demanded to be told of any future visions, and of any information, yes, pertinent, yes, to the expedition, yes. Gabrielle was tempted to tell, yes, him, yes, yes, but for a, yes, fee. She was a professional, or nearly one. Stanislaw, that pig, dismissed her vision as useless - useless, after hundreds of galleons - and would not let her speak. Literally would not let her speak - her lips were sealed magically. Stanislaw then distracted Professor Festeller by announcing that he had acquired a new something-something in-feed horn for the Gleason Apparatus by selling the vampire dust. Gabrielle did not say anything, she could not, but she would soon be asking him about a finder's fee for that.

The new dig site was quite obvious. It was a circular pit right in the middle of the encampment, nearly thirty meters across and only two from Gabrielle's tent. So far, it was just a hole with neat, vertical sides carving through layers of soil in a number of shades. Now Gabrielle understood why her tent had been placed there. No one else wanted to be so close. She stared over the unprotected edge at the wizards tediously vanishing thin layers of dirt. She knew she could vanish more at a time than that, but she was not going to volunteer for even more chores. She waved back to Abby, who had looked up and noticed her. The dark-haired witch had her table set up again with her cobbled-together Apparatus. She seemed to be enjoying herself, which made Gabrielle doubt her sanity. Or perhaps Pietre had grown his facial hair back. Abby's lashed-up equipment did not look any different to Gabrielle, so maybe the in-feed thingy had not yet arrived.

"You got an owl, Gabby!" pointed Abby. Gabrielle followed her raised arm. A large owl was perched on the center pole of her tent, a letter in its beak.

Gabrielle forgot about stupid Festeller and the evil-ish Stanislaw, and did not even bother to correct Abby's method of address. The owl could only be bringing good news. Either it was from George, he does write, and was further proof of his forgiveness and devotion, or it was Maman and Papa, writing with word that she would soon be on her way home. These were the only likely possibilities, decided Gabrielle. A second thought, puzzled, made to disagree. What was important now, thought Gabrielle, was making sure the owl did not leave before she could prepare a letter or hopefully, two.

Gabrielle lured the owl into the tent with a promise of owl treats, but the magic done to seal the tent opening only made it flap weakly. Even that might have been from a passing breeze; at least, that was what she claimed to the now suspicious avian messenger. The owl treats were difficult to find in the handbag. In her head, Gabrielle heard her mother telling her, again, to put away her things properly. She was sure that she had had some owl treats left, though. Neither of her pets would have eaten them; Pepi-Z did not have a mouth and Poisseux was made of spellotape. He was mostly translucent and she would know if he had tried to eat anything. Using the Accio spell, with either of her wands, extracted none of the tidbits that should have been there. Gabrielle wondered if something had gotten into her things, but that should not have been possible. She was the only one able to open the handbag. That was what George had said.

It was a very good owl, its feathers a light tan color with lots of brown speckles and a wingspan of more than a meter. The bird was certainly the nicest one Gabrielle had ever used. It did not, for example, nip or fly off in a huff when it was offered only some crusty cheese rind. The owl roosted on the antlers of one of the mounted animal heads in the common room of the tent, the Russian Sabre deer, if Gabrielle remembered correctly. The deer's eyes rolled up to look at the fowl nibbling its meager snack, but it did not shake its sword-like rack to dislodge it.

The letter the owl carried, Gabrielle was shocked to discover, was from Silvain. He was still in Iceland. There were several varieties of lichen spellotaped to the parchment, along with two dried mushrooms that reindeer were reportedly wild for. There was also a photo of Silvain and his family sitting in an outdoor hot spring. They waved madly at the camera, then started whacking each other with green boughs. The pink shapes moving below the milky blue water made Gabrielle wonder if they were wearing any clothing at all. It came to Gabrielle that perhaps she should have flushed that toilet.

The owl was friendly, surprisingly satisfied with the cheese rinds, and patient. But only up to a point. Gabrielle wrote a short letter to her mother and, especially, her father describing the vampire attack and the terrible treatment she had endured afterward. It took some time because she had to carefully choose the right euphemisms. When she had finished folding the message and addressing it, Gabrielle made the mistake of giving it to the owl. The bird had hopped down to her looking excited, so she had decided to let it hold the letter. Even though she had told it there would be two letters and had shouted after it, the owl flew off.

v - v - v - v - v

"There are mountain trolls less thick 'n you are," growled Dolohov, his voice harsh with barely controlled rage. "I'd kill you now but I know our lord will enjoy the opportunity himself."

"Look, how was I to know that -" began Rowle.

"Had it all figured out, didn't you, you clever dick? Right up there with Merlin himself, you are."

"The address was at least a place to start a search," argued the blond Death Eater.

"Oh yes. Like knowing it were King's Cross will automatically lead one to the right flat," spat Dolohov. "You bloody idiot. It'll be a miracle if we don't fail our lord now."

"Can I at least see the message the owl brought?"

"No."

What a pillock, thought Thorfin Rowle. As if getting caught and slapped up bang into Azkaban, twice, was proof of competence. He looked out over the bluff. A mist lay low over the water. "This should be about where we left the boat. Er..."

"It's not. Look how close the water is to the base of the cliff. It was further out where we landed. You've gotten us lost," accused Dolohov.

Rowle grimaced. "You mean it was farther out - when - we landed. The tide's come." And, it was not necessary to add, taken the boat. Blast! Rowle blamed the twisty metal thing; completely useless as an anchor. He prepared to apparate back to the French portkey terminal, since once Dolohov caught on the man would probably go berserk. That would not get him back to England, but it would make it harder for his compatriot to kill him. Going back would have to wait until the fog cleared to even think about apparating, or until another boat was found.

"The... the tide," repeated Dolohov. His frustration boiled over and his face contorted. A jet of purple sizzled from his wand, passing through the empty air where his target was no longer. He settled for forcing the next noisy, obnoxious muggle vehicle off the road and over the cliff. That, unfortunately, brought a lot more muggles to the scene. He apparated to the beach below to hide, and to figure out a way to get back before it was too late and he failed the Dark Lord. Also, how to find and kill Rowle.

v - v - v - v - v

"San Marino is the larger of the wizard enclaves, of course. It looks absolutely gorgeous from the pictures, and the shopping is said to be brilliant! Did you know it was one of the few places that successfully resisted Grindelwald on the continent? It still has its wizard towers," gushed Hermione to Ron who, Harry had to admit, was doing an admirable job of feigning interest. "Some of the few examples left standing anywhere."

"Will we pass close by?" asked Ginny. She was helping to examine George's map, while George was examining his large metal beetle. Harry could not help noticing that the shape of Italy on the old wizard map was decidedly suspect, not boot-like at all.

"Shouldn't think so," said George. "We're about here. Or, uh, here. Possibly here too; I blame the muggles and their Uncertainty Principle."

"Why's that?" asked Ron.

"Well we started in Salerno, right, and are heading for Albania, so we're staying, I think - "

"No, I meant about the muggles."

"Oh, that. I read that muggle boffins have worked out that they can't know everything," said George. He fiddled with the legs of the beetle.

"Huh, so what? Ron's known that for ages."

"I said can't know everything, not anything. Anyway, it sounds daft but I think they're bloody brill. They got something like a - million - galleons to prove that they not only didn't know the answer but that they would never know the answer. It's the biggest wheeze ever," explained George, his voice hushed in awe and wiping away a tear. "Fred selling water as prank pranks, our greatest achievement, is a flobberworm to their dragon."

"Muggles are mad."

"No," started Hermione. "That's not it. The Uncertainty Principle just states that you can't know both the position of something and its, er, momentum with full accuracy. If you know one perfectly, then you can't know the other. It's, it's like - " She paused, mouth still open. Harry immediately scanned the area for birds, thinking she had been jinxed.

"Can't know everything - it was too much to take. I'm so sorry little brother, but I think she broke," offered George solemnly, patting Ron's shoulder.

"The parts he's interested in still work," sniffed Ginny nastily.

"Bugger off the both of you," snapped Ron. He reached for the bushy-haired witch's hand. "'S'okay, really, you can still know - most - things."

"What? No, that's not - " said Hermione with a shake of her head. "Harry, do you remember Dobby saying that wizards are all in one place?"

Harry did, sort of, but did not want to admit it quite yet in case he was expected to have made a logical leap also. "Erm, what's that got to do with it?" That, thought Harry, was pretty good. It nearly answered the question, but, in fact, did not.

"It may explain the difference between apparition and what the house-elves do. You see, 'all in one place' might mean that a wizard can know his, well, call it position absolutely, which means his momentum can be anything. A house-elf 'takes all the steps at once'. If you take that to mean their momentum is known absolutely, then their position can't be, and so could be anything," explained Hermione, which was then followed by a large breath. "Of course, that's more the principle than the actual mechanism."

"Ah," nodded Ron.

"Ah? Ah what?" asked Hermione watching his face.

"Ah as in 'ah, you're not talking about food then?'," suggested George.

"Shove off! It was 'ah, you'll have something to work out over the water'," insisted Ron.

"Must you take lessons in lameness from Harry?"

"What?"

"Anyway, I'm not sure it applies. According to Mr. Fondle-Bug there, we are in three places," noted Ginny.

"And if we left it up to Miss Fondle-Di-"

"- I - think we could all use a good rest," said the Head Girl firmly. "I'm sure we've managed to lose the people following us."

"Are you really? Thank Merlin I had nothing more amusing to do than come along," said George. "We've had a couple of wizards trailing us the whole way. Or witches, because - Oh, don't bother looking Harry; if you could see them you would have."

"Why didn't you say anything?" demanded Harry heatedly. George grinned as if Harry had said something humorous.

"One would think," started George loftily, "that someone running around with the sobriquet 'The Chosen One' might expect some followers. If they weren't thick."

"That's the Prophet's doing!"

"How can - you - tell?" asked Ginny suspiciously.

"Erm, it was printed in the Prophet," replied Harry, nonplussed. "I'm sure you saw it."

"I was asking George."

"I think what he said should be proof enough," declared a pleased George.

"What?"

"What?"

"We're all very tired, George. How do you know someone is watching us?" clarified Hermione, while holding her wand in such a way as to emphasize the question.

"Badar, of course," answered George. It was, thought Harry, a typical twins' answer: not really one.

"Bay-dar? What the 'ell is that?" This was from Ron.

"Beetle Assisted Detection and Recognisance," explained George, patting his pocket. "Keeps good time as well, if you remember that insects use the lunar day."

"Why, er, beetles?" Harry hoped that that did not sound thick.

"It's beetle-shaped."

"So if was griffon-shaped it would be gay-dar?"

"No, no it wouldn't."

"The wizards following us, can you tell where they are now?" asked Harry.

"About a half mile back the way we came," replied George. "Probably just there to make sure we're not staying. We should reach the coast soon, but we'll have to wait until dark to cross."

"Can we be sure they're from the MInistry?" wondered Ginny.

"From - a - ministry, probably," noted George. "The political situation is complicated."

"That's true," added Hermione. "Each enclave claims the official Ministry of Magic, including the muggle government. According to the Concordanza di Velocità, every witch and wizard is under the jurisdiction of whichever ministry catches them. It makes international efforts very, er, chaotic. You never know which delegation will be the first, see?"

"On the other hand," said George, "there's nothing faster than an Italian racing broom."

v - v - v - v - v

Gabrielle took a deep breath, reassured her second thoughts that nothing would happen, and stepped past the line of boulders. Nothing did happen, so she released the breath she had been holding and un-scrunched her eyes. Of course nothing had happened! She had been completely correct in her guess that the camp's wards would be there to keep muggles from noticing the sudden arrival of a dozen tents and a flying horse, and not to keep witches inside. Gabrielle took another step, this time into the farmers crop that had not been flattened. She wore the charmed apron from Mrs. Weasley, so she was sure that no one in the camp would have paid attention to her leaving. It was her hope that the item worked on muggles also, since the farm buildings were pretty far away. Gabrielle looked back to see if she could see the camp, and found, to her relief, that she could. She also found, to her dismay, that she was leaving a decidedly noticeable trail through the grain stalks. That was not something she had accounted for.

It took a minute or two to work through the problem, then Gabrielle saw the solution. She opted not to try any of the hair-care spells she knew, grain being like hair in that it had roots, a stalk, and split-ends, since nearly all of the spells had more to do with laying hair neatly instead of sticking it up. Although, her first attempts at the magic had proved that the reverse was possible. The rest of the spells were for cutting, or un-cutting, hair. The second kind was the first that Maman had shown her; Gabrielle had always wondered why, since it was logically out of order. Logic was the magic here too, thought Gabrielle. She would, on her way back, simply walk backwards along the trail she was leaving now. That would undo the bend in the stalks, leaving no trace. Except, warned a second thought, for the time inbetween coming and going.

Philippe, her childhood friend and, well, squib, was always saying that logic was beyond wizards and witches; it was one of those things that people just said. Gabrielle was beginning to doubt the adage. She had been using a lot of logic lately. That was why she was going over to the muggle farm buildings to find a delivery owl. A farm would have a barn; a barn would have mice. Logically, barn owls would live in the barn to eat the mice. Gabrielle would treat the barn like the school's owlery - she would just ask whichever bird whose eye she caught if it would take her post. This was why she carried a liver, heart, and possibly a kidney wrapped in paper, taken from Nona's chopping block. The leaking package went a long way in explaining the popularity of owl treats. She would get to the bottom of the mystery surrounding her missing tidbits later. At first, Gabrielle had wondered how she would tell a magically inclined owl from one that was not, before realizing that all she needed to do was to ask. An owl would either respond, or it would not. Very simple if one thought logically. With all this practice, Gabrielle decided to have another go at Philippe's silly question, the one about the two guards that lied or something.

"Is anyone watching, Pepi-Z?" asked Gabrielle. Her pet, on watch and tethered to a hair clip, indicated no with a couple tugs. So far, thought Gabrielle, so good. Poisseux, possibly because he could not see, squirmed from inside her shirt to cling to the strings of the apron.

The cluster of three buildings hid a fourth, which was a modest home where the farmer probably lived. The farmer or his family were home, and only Pepi-Z's extraordinary senses and frantic tugging prevented her from turning the corner and being discovered. Not that the building had corners - it was very round, like a tower. A tower, noted Gabrielle, without windows, which meant no owls. That made it unlikely to be a barn. At least a proper barn.

The other two buildings had many more barn-like qualities, such as corners and windows. One looked new in that it had an over-sized feel to it, as modern muggle buildings tended to have. Gabrielle guessed that it was a replacement for the older structure nearby which was clearly not new. One could tell by the way the whole of it was canted some ways off vertical. Muggles were very particular about things being straight. But then, so was Maman. And, oh mon Dieu, Fleur. The racked walls mean that the openings in them were no longer square. The windows were cracked and broken, and the door did not close properly. This was a building that would easily allow mice in, and the owls that would eat them. The chain and padlock on the door would not easily allow her in, though.

Gabrielle looked for another way in. She had learned an unlocking spell at school, not in class, of course, but there was always someone showing off. That someone had been Drago, who had been, she suspected, trying for a prank discount. Her one attempt had not been completely successful, since the internal mechanisms had sort of exploded. But, that had been done with the wand that had Grandmere's hair at the core, which always seemed to Gabrielle to be impatient. Possibly with her. She thought she could probably, eventually, pick the lock, if she had her specially bent wires. A second thought noted that it - was - possible to take things out of the handbag and actually carry them. The thought was not helpful.

There was a door on this side of the barn, a very wide one, none on the side she had seen as she had approached, and no way to use the side that the house faced. A low window, conveniently left open, would suffice too, thought Gabrielle. Instead, the last side of the tilted structure had no doors and only very high windows. It also had several lines of what she had to assume was Albanian painted on it in big, block letters. Familiar big, block letters, which Gabrielle now recalled from the very first scrying that she had ever done. She had seen this writing, this barn before. There was a rat here, which was to be expected, logically, since the owls would need to eat, but it was not just a rat. Gabrielle could see that some of the building's exterior was damaged; vermin would have no trouble getting inside.

Gabrielle remembered how the rat had seemed to look right at her during the scrying, and how much more nasty it had looked compared to a normal pet rat. Harry Potter had wanted to find the rat, or the wizard who was the rat. Now she wondered why, and whether Harry had come to Albania to get him. There was not much news in this hinterland, but one would think that if Harry Potter visited there would be some commotion. Unless, thought Gabrielle, he was using his invisibility cloak, or was - Oh no!

"Poisseux! Oh mon Dieu! What are you doing?" cried Gabrielle. While her attention was elsewhere, her pet toad-ish zombie had made for the hole in the barn. "Stop!"

It was too late. The former amphibian was already within the walls, and Gabrielle had learned the hard way about putting her hands into unfamiliar openings. She raced back to the door, pulling out her favorite wand from around her neck. "_Alohomora__!_" The lock jiggled on the heavy chain. "_Alohomora__! __Alohomora__!_" she tried desperately, waving her wand wildly.

No, came a second thought. This is not the way to do it! Poisseux was made of spellotape; nothing would eat him. At least, for long. He was just trapped, and not in danger. He was not, realized Gabrielle, even trapped. Poisseux was just disobedient. Gabrielle took a calming breath, put down the offal, and lifted the lock up. Taking better aim, she tried again. "_Alohomora__!_".

This time the lock jerked in her hands with a distinctly mechanical, orderly click, as opposed to the bang-rattle of the first time, and opened. Gabrielle slipped inside and pulled the door closed. Without the lock and chain, it was swung ajar. She thought of Philippe, but he would probably be annoyed by her not having used the wires.

Inside, the barn was bone-dry, dimly lit, and smelled of heat. Heat, with a strange, sharp smell to the air that tingled her nose. A large muggle vehicle was rusting in one half of the front of the space. It looked partially disassembled, but Gabrielle was certainly not an expert in farm machinery maintenance. She merely assumed such, based on the numerous metal shapes on the ground around it. On the other side of the floor was a pile of large cloth sacks, filled with who knew what and labeled with numbers. Probably peter-chemicals of some sort. The sharp odor was stronger there. Unfortunately, that was the side Poisseux had disappeared into. It would be back into the handbag for him!

"Poisseux! Bad toad! Come out here," called Gabrielle. She would normally allow the zombie quite some time for his plodding pace, but he had just shown that he could move much quicker if he wanted. The floor was only packed dirt, and covered with old hay and whatever blew in on the wind; she could not hear the tick-tick Poisseux's claws normally made. "Pepi-Z? Eh, can you see Poisseux?" There was no reply, and Gabrielle quickly patted her hair to check for the animated bobble, in case he had fallen off. However, Pepi-Z was still tied to his thread. He was just not moving.

Gabrielle remembered her intention, and knew why. The zombie puffskein could not be eaten any more than a spellotape toad could, although Madame Chouisse's cat had tried. That did not stop ravens and other birds from swooping down for a speculative peck, so Pepi-Z would stay still unless she was in danger. Diving birds not counting. Which meant, logically - she was getting good at this, that there was an owl or even owls here. She called for Poisseux again, trying for the tone Maman would use, then went back to the door to retrieve the internal organs of some poor fowl. Gabrielle carried them to a nicely open area, opened the paper, and held them out. She scanned the rafters for a likely avian candidate, but it was very gloomy up there and she could not see any at all. Gabrielle felt, rather than saw, the first owl. It swept past silently, the only sounds being a whoosh of air, her "Oh!" of surprise, and the rustle of the paper as it fell to the ground minus most of the meat.

"Hey!" cried Gabrielle as she realized what had happened. "You have to take my post!" The owl, she could see as it disappeared toward the roof, was a good size. She bent and snatched up the remaining bait, which was the kidney. "You, eh, won't get anymore until you do," warned Gabrielle.

What a rude owl, thought Gabrielle as she waited. Presumptuous, noted a second thought, which Gabrielle agreed with. It is not coming back, added a third thought, which she ignored for its inconvenience.

Just before Gabrielle was going to have to admit that she had been beaten by the avian marauder, two things happened. One was the arrival of an owl, which flew down and landed next to the fallen paper. The bird gripped the paper in its talons, and looked up expectantly. This was more like proper owl behavior, except that this was not the owl Gabrielle was expecting. Or wanting. It was, eh, smaller, and... and... Runty and slightly chewed, supplied a tactless thought. "Eh, the post will be, eh, heavy," hinted Gabrielle gently. The little owl spread its wings and flapped. It would have been a more impressive display of power and flight-worthiness if it had not been accompanied by a swirl of lost feathers, and, also, if the bird had not fallen over.

Gabrielle turned her attention to the second event, which was the reappearance of the truant Poisseux. He was emerging backwards from behind the stinking sacks, dragging a shiny object through the debris. Oh Merlin, sighed Gabrielle to herself, now what has he gotten himself into? She was sure that she had told him that they were going to get an owl, and that was not an owl. It was not even a bird. The translucent toad had found a, well, to Gabrielle it looked like a small version of a tournament cup, the kind with two handles. The trophy was gold in color, so whoever it belonged to had won. Gabrielle was very certain, though, that it was not Poisseux's.

"What is the meaning of this?" scolded Gabrielle. The key was to emphasize the word 'what'. Fleur could make one almost feel it. "That is not yours." Although, asked a second thought, if it was inside the wall of an old barn is it anyone's? She reached for the cup to pull it from Poisseux.

The toad had a very good grip on it, and came along with the cup. Gabrielle dropped the kidney to grip Poisseux as well. The vaguely tattered owl pounced on the fallen organ immediately, still dragging the sticky, soaked wrapper with its talons. The bird may, noticed Gabrielle grudgingly, have some aptitude. Now that she held the golden cup closer, Gabrielle could see that it was of very high quality, with fine engravings, including one that might have been a bear. The handles were very finely wrought. The style, all curlicued and floral, spoke that it was very old. And that it should not be chewed by a toad. Poisseux was not letting go, though, however hard Gabrielle pulled. How strong could tape be?

It was a question for later. The little owl launched itself into the air in a small cloud of feathers, and tried to land on her shoulder. The metric ton notwithstanding, there was not enough shoulder for a bird with that wingspan to do so, especially with one foot already clutching something. The owl ended up hanging from the apron's strap. It was not enough to distract Gabrielle from the rat. The rodent boldly crossed the open floor. There was a twinkling as it scurried past, and it seemed as if the animal was carrying something silver in its paw. Or had a silver paw. Gabrielle just knew that this was the rat she had seen while scrying. It was, eh, Rattail! Or something like that. She stood very still, or as still as she could with a demented owl hanging off her. The rat-wizard did not look at her. The apron was worth its weight - actually, since it was only cloth, it was worth her weight in galleons. Even if people did make her take their filthy plates and garbage. Gabrielle put both the cup and Poisseux into the apron's pocket, because they were apparently of one piece now. He would be going into the handbag for a good long time.

The rat disappeared behind the pile of sacks, exactly where Poisseux had emerged from, and Gabrielle untangled the owl. She was confident the apron would hide her from sight, if she did not say anything. A less confident thought was more certain that she would be better hidden from sight if she was not actually there at all. Another thought carried the day by pointing out that that was extremely logical. Gabrielle sidled cautiously toward the door. May as well hold the wand, added the logical thought.

There was a distinctly angry, distinctly rodent screech. Gabrielle froze, unsure as to what to do. The rat emerged from its hiding place and jumped onto the mound of sacks, raising himself on hind legs and tail. Pepi-Z started tugging, but Gabrielle already knew. He may not be able to properly see her, but what about smell? The sacks stank, but she did not smell like them. The rat looked right at her.

"_Compunctio__!_" shouted Gabrielle. The spell struck the rat, who tumbled before righting himself. The next spell nearly said itself, springing to mind as if it were natural. "_Flagrate__Projucio__!_" The spell did what it always did when she tried casting it, which was to make her wand produce a rather sad little 'phut' noise and spit out a small gout of flame. Gabrielle had assumed, having a Veela heritage, that she would have a natural affinity for the magic. So far, it had been disappointing. The tiny ball of flame would barely make five meters, and this time was no different in that respect.

What was different this attempt was that Gabrielle was not in a deserted stone corridor at Beauxbatons, which had nothing to burn but the portrait on the wall behind her. It had really only been slightly singed - another howler. This time she was in a old, dry, wooden barn with kindling on the floor and sacks of flammable fertilizer ready to go. It was a disaster just waiting for a spark, and her well-practiced flames were far more than that. The wall of fire built quickly. "Merde! Merde!" cursed Gabrielle. There was nothing that she could do; she had always meant to learn a water spell. The farmer will be so angry. A shape much larger than a rat grew up behind the curtain of flame, and Gabrielle ran.

v - v - v - v - v

Gabrielle was hunkered down behind her magic wards. Actually, hunkered was a bit of an exaggeration. She was seated very comfortably in one of the chairs from the tent's common room, with her feet on another, transported within her handbag to the back of Soleil's stall. Also, the magic wards were more conceptual. There was the Abraxan colt to stomp and kick rat or wizard, and Pepi-Z to let her know when to ask for Soleil's assistance. Only Poisseux, and his cup obsession, was of no help. He was in the handbag. This was as safe as she could be, until she could come up with an explanation that did not sound as if everything was her fault.

That would be very difficult, thought Gabrielle. Unfortunately, retracing her path through the grain had not unbent the stalks and erased her trail. If anything, her passage was even more obvious. It had to be because she had not walked backwards through the crop as she had planned, but had fled back to the camp as fast as she could. Which was fast enough to be there before the fire broke through the roof of the structure, and for it to become a curious spectacle for the rest of the expedition. It had been quite a sight, remembered Gabrielle. She would not have guessed that muggle flames could be that color. No one seemed to notice the damaged crops as the day's light faded.

Gabrielle primary defense shuffled over for another pat on the nose. She would have to make sure the colt got his exercise tomorrow. How that could be done without her being seen would be Stanislaw's problem. Gabrielle wondered if she should also tell him about that Rattail. Soleil nibbled the upholstery. "Non, non, Soleil, please," said Gabrielle pushing his muzzle. "You are on guard, remember?" The Abraxan's ears pricked up and he turned to face the gate, neighing his challenge to the night. Gabrielle rolled her eyes, and went back to her note. It was difficult to write as she had to hold her wand for light. The ragged little owl had followed her back, still carrying the wrapping from the bait. Closer examination revealed that the owl was not so much small as young and definitely not well cared for. The bird had a slightly chewed look to it because it was, in act, slightly chewed. Gabrielle soothed the wounds with a salve Professor Elevagre had prepared for the injured bowtruckles; the animal seemed to appreciate it. Gabrielle could not say no to the young owl's earnest look, so she was writing a very brief, and light, message to George. She had no expectations the bird would be able to deliver the letter, but it could try if it wanted. "Stop if you get tired, and, eh, it is okay to come back if it is, eh, too far," instructed Gabrielle, wondering if the owl would know French. She tied the folded letter to the owl's leg, taking back the used wrapping as the young bird swallowed down the rest of his cheese. "Please be careful, yes?"

v - v - v - v - v

"Harry?" asked Ginny right into his ear.

That was the best part of flying pillion, thought Harry; the way Ginny would nestle into his back, her arms around him. Racing through the dark, over the water, with her closeness - he could almost forget everything else. Almost. It was his scar. It was tingling, something it had not done for ages. Still, flying like this, with Ginny, was fantastic, even better than chasing a snitch.

"Harry!" called Ginny more loudly. That, and her fingers digging into his abdomen snapped him from his reverie.

"What is it, Gin?" Harry had to nearly shout to make himself heard over the rush of air.

"How is it that George knows where to go?"

"What?"

"Why are we following George?" repeated Ginny.

"I dunno," replied Harry. "Why not?" It was a question that he had not even thought of. George did seem to know where he was going, so, well, why not? It made him feel better that Hermione had not asked that question either.

"Well, it's all a bit strange, don't you think?"

v - v - v - v - v

Lord Voldemort, the Dark Lord whose very name was feared, the last wizard the world needed, wiped the smear of cream from his face. There was something to the geography of this land, perhaps, that led to such versatility with flaky crust and heavy cream. It would be considered out of character, the thought, and it was. One school of philosophy held that the essence of matter was not absolute, that it could be influenced by that which contained it. Thus, for example, potions to fortify the humour flow in the liver were kept in artfully crafted glass replicas of the organ. All very sensible, if not correct, until it came to urinary tract afflictions and those peculiar to women. The Dark Lord recalled that Cannilook's thesis on such being a very popular reference work among the naive first years. It was clear that the appetites, at least, of the youthful body were making themselves felt. He could not feel any presence of the other, though.

The Dark Lord held the wand, his wand, at the moment, and concentrated. He had not done this since that wretched night a year ago, and was not sure if the confused stick he held now would allow it. In the darkness behind his closed eyes, Lord Voldemort imagined himself pulling back, rising up, to seek out the magic he left on his servants. Pictured as lights, one was very dim, and visible only because the bearer was close: Snape. An accomplished spy, the man never let down his guard. The Dark Lord looked farther afield. Wormtail was out there somewhere, trapped by the lack of his own wits. And there was something that he could sense, but it was faint. Too faint to be of use. Practice was needed to strengthen the ability, but in a little more than a day he would be able to deal with the miserable rat in person, and take back the magic that was to be Lord Voldemort's alone. Perhaps he would try again in the morning, when a great deal more magic would be available in the world as the parasites were purged.

v - v - v - v - v

They soared on the broom high over the Fey Wilds, diving into a long sweeping turn to head back for another loop around the Bone Tower. It was late spring, and the early flowers covered the formal gardens in a mass of color. Gabrielle was flying with George, showing him the forest, the best of Beauxbatons, and the outcrop near the bend in the river, where they would picnic. He had his arms around her as he leaned over to see. It was a beautiful day, sunny and warm, and at the best time of the year. It was perfect. Until the broom lurched.

"All right, luv?" asked George. Gabrielle could feel the touch of his breath on her neck; it made even her toes tingle. The broom shook and shuddered.

"It is the school's brooms. They sometimes to this," explained Gabrielle. "They, eh, often do this," she admitted. She reached up a hand to draw his face close. It was unexpectedly hairy.

"We should get up, fëmijë," whispered George.

Gabrielle giggled. "You mean down, silly. It - Eh, what?"

"Zgjoheni, fëmijë. Unë kam nevojë për ndihmën tuaj."

Gabrielle opened her eyes, which revealed Soleil's nostrils just above her. She shooed the huge muzzle out of the way and sat more upright. Soleil, noted a more awake thought, is on the wrong side. Gabrielle looked again. The Abraxan had shoved his way between the back wall and the chairs. She was now in the middle of the stall, between Soleil and Nona. The old witch held a lantern, and beckoned Gabrielle. "And this is guarding?" Gabrielle asked the colt disapprovingly. At least he had the sense not to say anything back.

Nona waited patiently for Gabrielle to put her shoes on. It still feels so late, thought Gabrielle. Can it be time to prepare breakfast already? The fog of sleep made Gabrielle miss a number of telltale signs, but she did not miss the bucket of water. And, the bucket did not miss her. She shrieked in surprise. "Oh mon Dieu! Have you lost your senses? Why would you do -"

The rest was smothered by a rough towel roughly used. Gabrielle flailed at the assault, and wrenched herself free. "Ju keni erë e kalit," said Nona, which Gabrielle found to be a very poor justification, whatever it was. "Të vijnë me mua."

This is Soleil's fault, thought Gabrielle. She should tell the rest of the herd about how he was afraid of an old woman. Then Gabrielle noticed that she was completely dry save for her shoes, which squelched as she walked. The herd might understand being afraid of a crazy old witch. She followed Nona into the cottage, and then it was too late as the door closed very firmly behind her. The table was set with the fancy crystal ball and covered by the special tablecloth. Seated at the table were two dark-haired, matronly women who Gabrielle thought could be sisters. It was not time to peel potatoes; it was a seance. The first time, Gabrielle had not even been sure if it had not been just a dream. This time, she knew she was to be a special rock. It was useless, but she turned to go anyway. Nona's steel grip caught her arm, though the crone tried a smile.

Gabrielle was seated on a barrel. The only change for the occasion was that a folded blanket had been placed on it for some meager cushioning. Apparently, sighed Gabrielle to herself, the extra distance to her tent was too much for Nona to bother with. A steaming mug of herbal tea and two of Nona's doughy, sweet pastry lumps on a plate were set in front of her. Nona is being polite, thought Gabrielle. That meant that she did not have to what Nona wanted, except that if she refused then Nona would stop being polite.

Gabrielle took a cautious sip of the fragrant tea, mostly out of curiosity. After all, she was not likely to take part in the conversation. Regular tea was bad, and herbal teas were worse, but they were worth a few swallows to try and guess the ingredients. The black teas were always the same: old boiled leaves. This drink, considered Gabrielle, was mostly chamomile, with a little mint and a hint of ginger. There was some sort of citrus too, not exactly lemon. And an astringent flavor, nearly bitter, if she let it linger on her tongue too long. It was...

It was unusual to find, so close to a farm, to houses. She gazed at the purple spikes pushing up through the earth. Unusual because of what was needed to grow them, and she knew what that was. Was young Rastesis messing around again? There would be words if she had found another unicorn. There were so few of them these days; there were so few of many things, except the problems people had. The curved knife sliced through the colored fungus. The insides were creamy white. No sense letting them go to waste. Has the girl seen such an animal before at that school? Likely as not - the modern world. The more they learn the more they forget what was really important, and the less help they were to those most in need. The purple spikes were wrapped in leaves and tucked into the wicker basket. The girl worked hard. That was a pleasant surprise, though she wished the youngster would mind the knives more. Perhaps if she gave her -

The mug was pulled away, surprising Gabrielle. The two woman watching her laughed nervously, and it was enough to color Gabrielle's cheeks. Nona set the mug back on the table with a noticeable clunk and returned to her seat. Gabrielle focused on eating a pastry lump, carefully arranging it on the plate to avoid the staring eyes. The lumps were heavy, buttery, and covered with an overly-sweet glaze. Gabrielle tried to remember what Nona had once called them. The pastry layers were more like noodles than the light, airy dough there was in France. A mouth full of it made chanting quite difficult. Nona had to stop and wait for Gabrielle to try and swallow, something that made Nona's customers smile.

The magic seemed to have trouble coming together, and Gabrielle frankly hoped that it would not. She had not liked the first experience, and doubted the second would be better. Professor Sombrevoir had not covered seances, recalled Gabrielle, but she thought that the dead were supposed to speak through the medium. Nona had to be doing it incorrectly, either intentionally or by mistake. Already Gabrielle could feel a creeping chill. She resigned herself to the unpleasantness.

At first, the words coming from Gabrielle's mouth were almost gibberish. That was not completely true, it was that they were a mix of Albanian and English, as if she were speaking both at the same time. It was disconcerting if one was sure as to what was supposed to be happening; it induced panic if one did not. Gabrielle was writhing, trying to break free, when she sneezed loudly.

The sneeze seemed to clear Gabrielle's head some, and when next she spoke it was in English only. "[I beg your pardon, dear ladies. I shant be a minute, and then this fine fellow with the temper can speak.

"[Now, I know it is terribly rude to both interrupt and to ask a favor, but I need to warn Harry Potter.]" Gabrielle wondered, Harry Potter? "[You are all in great danger - What? Oh yes. The rules, of course. I'd nearly forgotten. Ahem.

"[The splintered soul approaches with youth reborn, with a darkness once stopped by purity horn. He seeks what the rat hid and the simple toad stole, and the power of destiny for evil goal. His servants at his side, he holds neither's full heart. One repays the debt; the other's lost at the start.

"[I must ask your forgiveness once more; that was appalling doggerel. By the way, we met once, Mademoiselle Delacour. You may not recall, as you were asleep in short order. You are turning into a fine young witch, and I - Oh, do calm yourself, my good man, or I will do it for you.

"[My time, even in this eternal land, is short. Good bye, dear girl, and give my regards to your parents.]"

v - v - v - v - v

Gabrielle staggered from Nona's cottage, the result of the soul-chilling effects of the seance and of the brandy given to counter the same. She wore two pendants around her neck, with the old witch's reminder of always. One just looked like a tab of silver, and that was acceptable. The other was the severed, dried foot of some poor creature, with some of the fur still attached. It was not acceptable, except who would argue with Nona after she had stopped the vampire? Gabrielle thought of making a cover for it, so at least it did not touch her skin or clothes. She had just reached the gate to Soleil's stall when there was a scream. A jolt of panic cleared Gabrielle's mind. It was the rat! She clambered over the gate, peeking back over it to see the danger. It... was raining wizards.


	19. I Just Wanted To Help

Chapter Nineteen - I Just Wanted To Help

Gabrielle spent the night in Soleil's stall, even though she had the amulets from Nona. The rat was probably still out there and a menace, but she stayed hidden behind the Abraxan mostly because of the letters 'EXP'. Those, appended to Poot Powder, were apparently intended to indicate that the results would be explosive. Explosive not in sound, but in action. Wizards and witches had fallen from the sky because wizards and witches had been launched into the sky by magical exploding flatulence. It was obvious that thrust sufficient to send a grown wizard through the air had no problem with any clothing in the way. There had been a lot of pale, but reddening... flesh... exposed as she peeked through the gate last night. Which, she reminded herself, should not have been as funny as it had been. Someone could have gotten hurt! That is, hurt more than not being able to sit at breakfast. Especially the one wizard who had grabbed a tent wire. He had spun like a catherine wheel before letting loose and sailing across the camp. Gabrielle could only assume the loud crash that followed was the end of his flight.

What worried Gabrielle was that if one spent any time on the grounds of Beauxbatons last term the presence of dorm seven was almost unavoidable. On many still, cold mornings, the building would be hidden by its own cloud of vapor! That same presence was in evidence here at camp, at least before it erupted in a whoosh of bluish flames. It would be natural to suspect a current student. And that would be correct, too. Gabrielle's trap had failed though. She had expected to... sniff out, as it were, the culprit stealing Soleil's whiskey. The singular culprit, not the five wizards and three witches, including Abby, standing up at breakfast and wearing fireproof leather skirts. Kilts, corrected a second thought, for the wizards. The insane new healer did not believe, it seemed, in bed rest. Just bandages. There were still too many suspects.

v - v - v - v - v

Harry Potter was up early, even though he, Ginny, and the others had flown most of the night. He had been an early riser most of his life, more to get a start on the chores the Dursleys had for him than by choice. It was not chores that got him up early lately, though. Harry just found it best to be up and about before George was, leaving Ron to be the target of most pranks. He waved his wand at the magical fire, causing it to flare up. The flames were more difficult to keep hot than a regular wood fire, but there was no need for fuel and there was no smoke. Wizards really did have an easy time of it when roughing it thought Harry. He set the kettle over the fire.

The small camp was made in the scrubby forest on the hills overlooking an inlet. The area was completely deserted, without any lights nearby when they had landed last night. The morning's light revealed only the slightest hint of people, in the form of a roughly paved ramp to the water and a trail-head.

"Morning Harry," said George. He piled several branches together and transfigured them into a rustic chair, settling into it with much shifting to get comfortable. "Bloody knots."

Harry could see that George had a mass of feathers in his hand. "Is that supposed to be breakfast?" asked Harry, cringing.

"It's supposed to be an owl," replied George. "Got any owl treats handy?"

"I thought we were warded against Post owls!"

"It's not a Post owl. Not a proper one, at least. Barely an owl too; more of an owlet. Or budgie cross, come to look at it," said George, pulling a wing out for inspection. "Looks like something did try to make it breakfast."

"Is it from Fred?"

"Dunno, haven't checked yet. The thing's only just crashed into the back of my head," explained George. "Give the fire a poke. The water's near boiled."

Harry poured the water into the teapot, and went into the tent to dig out a handful of owl treats. It had been ages since he had used Hedwig for much of anything. If there was a way for her to get through the anti-Post wards, then they could get some news, at least. Although the fact that Mrs. Weasley would probably have a great deal to say about the ruse made that less attractive.

Ron was still asleep, with nothing oozing out or sticking in. Which meant to Harry that his best mate was either not the target, or George had something a lot more subtle than last time, when Ron had been forced to braid the hair on parts of his body that normally did not see the sun. There was no movement on the female side of the tent.

Outside, Harry found George arguing with the avian messenger. "Look, you stupid bird, what don't you get about this? You can't have delivered it if you won't give it up," argued the older Weasley. The scrappy owl used beak and talon to fend off George's fingers.

"Why not use your wand to cut the string?" wondered Harry.

"Skived off more than a little, didn't we? Come on lad, you know magic and owls don't mix. It'd be a daft Post if any tit with a wand could mess it up," said George. "Give the thin streak a few treats. Maybe it'll fancy a kip for afters and we can untie the string then. Or maybe the bloody thing will choke on them."

Harry put a small pile of treats on the ground. George helped the owlet to the food by throwing it. "Erm, George? Remember when you said that a spell wouldn't work if you didn't know what it was supposed to do?"

"No, not particularly. But I can see you're disappointed so I'll say I've had a sudden recollection. What of it?"

"Well, supposed that happened. What would it mean?"

"Since it can't happen, it means it didn't happen. You probably saw someone cast the spell once, like when you were a child, maybe, or read about it. You just forgot you knew it," suggested George. "Fancy a biscuit?"

"I'm pretty sure I wouldn't have seen that spell at the Dursleys. Or any spell."

"Ah, right. Didn't you once meet Diggle, though? Fancy a biscuit?"

"We've got biscuits?" asked Harry, looking around. "Anyway, Diggle didn't seem the type for that sort of spell."

"We'd have biscuits if you'd go an' get them! I can see why Ginny's subtle hints haven't worked," huffed George. "But I'll bite. What is - that - sort of spell?"

Harry creased his brow. Subtle hints? He had not noticed any - oh. She must have been too subtle. More likely, sighed Harry, he was too thick. How was he supposed to know these things? If he could just map Ginny to a quidditch play, then she would be easier to read. Harry knew it was no good asking Ron. Hermione had given up on hints a while ago, providing Ron with lists and flowcharts, neither of which his mate ever consulted. Hermione might be able to help him, thought Harry, except she could be a bit shirty if one did not actually follow her advice.

On the other hand, noticed Harry, George was smirking more than usual. "Maybe I'll just wait until she stabs me?"

"Always reliable, that," nodded George sagely. "So, Potter, what's this spell that's got your Y-front all twisted up? Must be pretty bad, am I right?"

"It was, er, Sectumsempra. I just saw it scribbled in the margins of a book, then I nearly killed Malfoy with it!" Harry winced at his outburst and ducked his head. He added, more quietly, "I'm sure I'd never heard of it before, nor knew what it would do, but it worked when I cast it."

George whistled low. "It wasn't Moody, or his impersonator, that might have shown you that? You've been in the Restricted Section too, right?"

"I'm pretty certain of where I saw it, and all that was in the book was the incantation," said Harry, skipping mentioning the note's recommendation to use it on enemies. "And then... Draco..."

George downed the rest of his tea, and scratched his chin thoroughly before speaking again. "You were possessed by He-Who-Must-Not-"

"It's Voldemort, and yeah. But only for a little while! And it hurt him too."

"Right, right. So... maybe he was thinking of that spell, you know, rummaging through the playbook, as it were."

"I don't remember that. He was taunting Professor Dumbledore."

"But in his, you know, Tower of the Mind he might have been. You might know loads of spells without, er, knowing."

"What is the Tower of the Mind? I'm not sure I've got -"

"Oh bloody hell! Will you look at that? It - is - choking," complained George. He scooped up the owlet and squeezed it. A high-pitched whistle became a screech as an extra-large treat popped out. "There. Now give me the message, you runty - Oy!"

"If it's not a real Post owl, maybe it doesn't understand English?" suggested Harry, although he felt the bird was being more than a little ungrateful.

"That's possible," acknowledged George. "But I think I'll try a large rock first."

"Is that an owl? I thought there were wards?" Ginny staggered over to the fire, yawning. "The tea's gone already?"

"Probably, definitely, and sadly," replied George. "All manner of affirmatives." He had found a small boulder, which he raised over his head.

"If it's from Fred, it might be a French owl. I'll get Hermione," said Harry quickly. George stopped, looking slightly cheated.

"Oy, donnez-moi la lettre, git," tried George. "There's not enough to eat under those feathers anyway." The young owl stuck out a leg. It was the wrong leg, but it cooperated as George pulled the letter free. Since the message might have been from his twin, George unfolded the paper with his arms stretched as far from his face as he could. Ginny, still groggy from sleep and not thinking clearly, leaned in.

"Hey, that's - It's from Gigi!" blurted Ginny. George pulled the note to him, scanning it quickly. "He does write still - leave it to Fred to get it wrong," she added half to herself.

"Gigi?"

"Fleur's sister?" reminded Ginny. "She's obsessed with this git."

George, who had been examining his metal beetle, snapped the wing case shut. "Let's get everyone up and moving."

"What? I've barely had any sleep! If it weren't for Ron's snoring I'd still be asleep," complained Ginny.

"Yeah, but you're already up. No reason the other two should get a lie-in, right? Or a lie-on." argued George with a wink.

"What's the hurry? Did something happen?" asked Harry. "We're all exhausted. It's been nearly two days straight of flying."

"The youth of today! It's barely been a day and a half," replied George, shaking his head in despair. "Come on, get your lazy arse up."

"Why?"

"I think she's found Wormtail."

v - v - v - v - v

One certain way to avoid people, Gabrielle found, was to tie oneself to an Abraxan. There was something in the way the ground shook when Soleil stomped that cleared a path. Or it may have been the way he held his head so high, daring a challenge. If the others found out how he cowered before Nona, well, they would... still get out of the way. Just with less respect.

Gabrielle was leading the colt, when he followed, to Stanislaw's tent, where the German would explain to her exactly how she was to exercise the flying horse, or she would use his tent for that purpose. Which was the kind of fierce determination that beforehand was easy to have. She nonchalantly held only the halter as Soleil glided over the dig site. The excavation was much deeper, and stonework was beginning to emerge from the vanished soil. The wizards and witches working below looked up in surprise as she and Soleil swept over. Abby was again working her apparatus, standing like she was astride an invisible steed.

The problem with tents, thought Gabrielle, was that they lacked a door to knock at. Her tent had a large common area, as did the healer's tent, so poking one's head in to announce oneself was not really too rude. Stanislaw's tent was his alone, which did make it rude. And potentially embarrassing. Gabrielle hesitated. She knew his name was Stanislaw, but that was not a polite way to address him. Not that he always deserved politeness, but he used her family name when he was not being obnoxious. She tried to recall his family name; she was sure she had heard it before. Was it Hammakerslammaker? Slammakerhammaker?

Fortunately, Soleil was as good as any doorknocker or bell. His loud proclamation that he was number one, which sent one of the kilt-wearing wizards back into his tent, was enough. Stanislaw's head popped out from the tent flap. "Dieser verdammte Biest! Ich - Was ist los? Fraulein Delacour! What are you - no, never mind. Come in, come in."

"Eh, come in?" Gabrielle was confused. She was standing there with an unexploded Abraxan; did he not see where the tether led?

"It will only take a moment. I have several of the latest Artefakte. Perhaps you may have a - "

"I was about to exercise Soleil," interrupted Gabrielle. She pointed to the massive, winged palomino towering behind her, in case the wizard had somehow missed its looming presence. Hopefully Soleil was not listening, as he did not like being ignored.

"Ja, ja. I have something for that. But first, a little business," insisted Stanislaw. He held the tent flap open invitingly, which made Gabrielle suspicious at first. Then a thought struck her.

"There will, eh, be a finder's fee?" Ha, thought Gabrielle, that was the glumbumble in his tart!

"Ja, possibly," grumbled the wizard. "If there is some value."

Gabrielle turned to the colt, who was standing stiff-legged and eyeing Stanislaw. "I have to, eh, get something first, before we can go. You will be good, yes?" Soleil shook his head and snorted, which Gabrielle decided to interpret as maybe. The act also pointed out the real problem with Stanislaw's request. The tether would barely allow her to enter the tent unless Soleil was going to follow, and she could not take it off because there would be nothing left unstamped in the camp if he was loose.

Stanislaw had an answer for that, using his wand to stretch the leather tether. Soleil tried to bite the wizard's hand, but Gabrielle spotted it and slapped the Abraxan's considerable nose. "Was I supposed to let you bite his fingers off? Who do you think will get the blame?" scolded Gabrielle when Soleil tried to look hurt. He was not fooling her.

Ushered inside, Gabrielle was shown the latest rubble. She did recognize another piece of the staff, but beyond that she was unsure of what was expected of her. Stanislaw, who had thought that any round, charcoal-like piece of wood should be part of Wyrmbreath, was becoming frustrated. "Can you not See at all? Perhaps if you touch them, smell them?"

"I, eh, have," said Gabrielle. "They smell of dirt."

"This was found surrounded by a layer of powdered sapphire..." He held out a piece of the broken circlet of pottery. The other half was on the table. Gabrielle had examined them first, because the two parts of the clay, rune-covered ring were at least recognizable as something.

"But, eh, it was in the dirt as well," Gabrielle pointed out.

"Perhaps if you tried tasting it? The magical essence -"

"You want me to - lick - it?" asked Gabrielle incredulously, giving him a Look that even Fleur might be proud of. "Have you lost your senses?"

"For a finder's fee, one must find something," hinted Stanislaw.

"Like the, eh, vampire's dust?" hinted Gabrielle in return.

Stanislaw muttered darkly in German, which, Gabrielle noted, was very good for that purpose. She had a clear path to the exit and Soleil, so she was not worried. At least, not worried about Stanislaw, who was giving her a calculating look. The steady decline in the slack in the tether did worry her some. It meant that the maybe had become maybe not.

"Five galleons for the vampire dust," said Stanislaw abruptly. He gave her a lopsided smile. "We are not so different, liebchen. Now will you try?"

"Eh, and the piece of the staff? That is worth something?"

"Five galleons for the dust, and I do not mention the cause of the fire at the farm to Herr Professor." The smile became stern. Gabrielle paled. How much did he know?

"That, eh, that..." started Gabrielle. Was all my fault, suggested an honest thought. "That was - not - all my fault! Eh, that is, that was - not at - all -"

"The trail through the field led right to that damned beast's stall. No else goes near it, and you have set fire to the expedition before. I said nothing, though. If you are the kind to enjoy muggle-baiting, then so be it. But you will help me."

"Muggle-baiting! How - how could you think that? There was a rat! Who is a wizard! He was going to attack, you see, because, eh, because..." Because, filled in the honest thought helpfully, he had been cursed. Gabrielle was not going to say that, though, and for some reason she knew she should not mention the cup. This was all Poisseux's fault, but Gabrielle did not think telling Stanislaw that would help. Resigned, she picked up the broken ring of pottery, wiped it as clean as she could on her blouse, and touched her tongue to it.

Which was just stupid. It tasted musty - dirty - and felt gritty. Gabrielle tried not to think of the countless worms that had crawled along it. There was a strong hint of sulphur there, also, which... lingered in the air after the yellow fire tracing the runes had died out. Thank the stars she had ignored that blithering fool Constantine and had not cast the portal from metal! Gnarled hands loosed their white-knuckle grip on the staff. The attempt to reach the Other Side had failed. There may be no Heaven, but the nightmarish creatures, black, as if tarred, with tentacles, claws, and raw bone, that had reached through the opening wrought between worlds proved that there was a Hell. Still, it was a success, one deserving of description in the grimoire. Dangerous, too, and not for the first time she considered how much easier it would be to be the first among equals if only there were fewer equals. This arcanum, passed to others in confidence as a treasured secret - with judicious alterations, of course - might unleash enough of the unholy to bring their towers down upon their learned heads. If only she was able to reliably control a portal through the thin walls of the known, well, that merely proved that she was the most learned, and therefore -

Gabrielle blinked dazedly. Stanislaw held, pinched between a thumb and finger, the broken circle, which now glistened wetly. Gabrielle started to say something, then realized that the filth that was no longer on the hard clay was on her tongue. She stood there with it hanging out, wondering if there was any water.

"You are a very strange little girl," said Stanislaw, setting the pottery aside and wiping his hands on a summoned towel. "It was like watching a cat clean itself."

"Boo boo hab abny babber?" asked Gabrielle. And she vowed that when it came to the finder's fee, that comment would cost him. She, smoldered Gabrielle, was not a little girl, but a young woman, petite, with talents for both Seeing and curse-breaking. Which she would have reminded him of had her tongue been usable.

"_Scourgify_," incanted Stanislaw. Gabrielle spun away from him at the explosion of stinging pain. It felt as if she had dipped her tongue in a fizzy muggle soda made from vinegar! She could not say the words that popped into her head now, and the lunatic Stanislaw was the better for that. "Please. Surely your mother has done that as well?" said Stanislaw impatiently.

"No," said Gabrielle spitting repeatedly. "She is not insane! Why did you do that?" It was not a good question, since the spell had cleaned her tongue. And chin. And nostrils. "You could have given me some water," she added reproachfully.

"Spare the wand, spoil the child," shrugged Stanislaw. "Now, tell me of your vision."

v - v - v - v - v

A decade of teaching experience guiding him, Severus Snape watched the agitated youth warily. As said youth carried the essence of the Dark Lord, the potential outburst would not be a petty act of teen rebellion, he had endured those often enough, but would likely be far more violent, deadly. The face of the boy revealed nothing. It was the stiff posture and slashing movements of the body, as he examined the message that had arrived by owl, that indicated anger and disappointment. The former professor did not ask what the cause of the angst was. He was reasonably sure he would find out, even if it was only moments before he died.

Snape considered his life. Subjectively, it was greatly improved. He was eating better, though the amount of cabbage in his meals had reached alarming levels. There were no irritating students to deal with, nor their appalling inability to absorb the course material to suffer. There was no Potter, whose very visage goaded with past torments and all that he had lost. Objectively, though, Snape knew his life was more tenuous than ever. The obvious health of the boy's body meant that the value of his potion skills was dropping. The Dark Lord's inner circle consisted of no one. He was keeping his plans to himself. Snape was no longer acting as a spy for either side; the lack of any mission depriving him of the ability to steer events even slightly. He was little more than an accessory to the Dark Lord's guise as they travelled incognito amongst the muggles. Snape could see how he could be discarded as easily as a glamour was dispelled. Blame lay squarely at Potter's feet.

"Severus," began the Dark Lord. "How did you sleep last night?"

Snape considered the unexpected question carefully. It was very unlikely that the Dark Lord wished to exchange idle pleasantries, unless the act was intended for an audience. It was also unlikely that he would care about the comfort of a bed, or of any nightmare that marred sleep. No, thought Snape, something had happened, or was supposed to have happened, and the question is whether it was detectable.

"It is a simple question, Snape."

"It is, my lord. I recall waking shortly after one, thinking that I had perhaps heard something, or felt something passing. There was nothing though."

"Not a disturbance in the magic, as if a thousand wands cried out and then were silenced?"

"No-o-o," said Snape slowly, wrong-footed by the question. There was a school of thought that held that one's form shaped one's thoughts, which was why one should never transfigure oneself to an earthworm. This was just the sort of gibberish a student would spout. "There was nothing like that." Was the Dark Lord losing his mind?

"I did not feel as much either. What task did you give to Dolohov and Rowle?" This question was as sharp as the previous was meaningless. Snape steadied himself and withdrew further into his Tower.

"They wished to be of service to you, my lord. I merely suggested that they locate Potter's hiding place," replied Snape. Had the boy somehow managed to kill both Death Eaters as well? It no longer seemed inconceivable after dispatching the werewolf.

"Yes, Lord Voldemort knows. Can you then explain, Severus, why Dolohov was returning from France when he was captured again? He had splinched himself, and now occupies six very small cells in Azkaban."

"France, my lord? I... have no explanation for Dolohov's actions save, perhaps, chronic idiocy."

"As I expected. That is your favorite diagnosis. Do you understand what has happened? Potter has only now to exist to disrupt my plans. No one is to seek him, no one is to move against him or the parasites around him, except by my orders alone. I must be the one to deal with him; I am the only one who can. And I shall, once I have my wand," said the Dark Lord via the wan face of the youth. "I believe I have discerned its location."

"My lord," said Snape neutrally. He could not bring himself to believe that the so-called Death Stick was real, but he could allow doubt. The Dark Lord had, after all, found and entered the Chamber of Secrets. It was of no comfort to realize that Potter had done the very same.

v - v - v - v - v

"It is a portal," muttered Stanislaw, turning the broken circle of hardened clay over and over. Gabrielle wondered if he was trying to calculate a market value. The total must have been disappointing, given the look on his face. "I will have to give this to Klaus," he said finally in annoyance.

"I'm sor-" started Gabrielle because of his tone. But what did she have to apologize for? She had done as he had asked; she could not make his finds valuable. Instead, since she was leaning against the pull of the tether again, Gabrielle stated,"I, eh, really need to take care of Soleil."

"What? Oh, yes. I had nearly forgotten the beast." Stanislaw crossed to the his brass-bound chest, poking his wand at the malevolent box. She hoped that he remembered her galleons.

While she watched, Gabrielle decided that Stanislaw was being unfair to Soleil. Being tied directly to the colt, she knew exactly how well Soleil was behaving, and how patiently he was waiting. A second thought did cross her mind that the animal was being rather suspiciously well-behaved, but there was no screaming or shouting, so perhaps Soleil was just in a good mood. Or, he had found something close by to eat. "Soleil is, eh, not as bad as, eh, eh..." began Gabrielle badly. She had been about to name Montaigne, but that was not fair. Montaigne was, probably, still more powerful than the colt, but really was quite gentle as long as one remembered that he was king, and treated him as such.

Stanislaw turned back to Gabrielle. "Herr Professor has loaned this from his collection: the Diadem of Grosboule." He held up what, to Gabrielle, looked like a dead bird. "It covers the rider and steed with an acceptable disillusion charm."

"It, eh, looks like a dead bird," observed Gabrielle. She knew what a diadem was, and they did not normally have beaks and blank, staring eyes.

"It is a dead bird," agreed Stanislaw. "A vulture of some sort. Dead from natural causes, if that is important."

"A diadem is, eh, something you wear on your head, yes? Like a crown?" asked Gabrielle. Perhaps he did not know what one was supposed to be.

"Ah. That is underneath, like so? Let me explain. This was created by Madame "Half-baked" Grosboule in 1317, to hide her as she rode the countryside on her business. The charm conceals whatever is below the diadem - rider, steed, baggage - when it is placed upon the head," described Stanislaw. He looked at Gabrielle closely, as if expecting something. Gabrielle returned the look because he had not gotten to the feathered carcass yet. "Everything below the diadem means it, and the top of the your head, is visible. That would be far more noticeable than what would seem to be a bird in the air."

"That is stupid!" blurted Gabrielle. Was this an elaborate prank? She clutched the edge of the table to help counter Soleil's pull.

"Ja, half-baked. A very talented witch it is believed, Madame Grosboule, but not very thorough. The diadem will allow you to fly the beast without upsetting muggles. It is very valuable. Do not lose it," said Stanislaw with an emphatic end.

Gabrielle was not worried about losing the diadem. She was more concerned about the condition of the avian corpse that would be on top of her head, and about her slow backwards progress toward the exit. At least the deceased vulture did not seem to smell. The good possibility, thought Gabrielle, was that the lack of odor meant it was carefully preserved and clean. The other possibility, came a second thought, was that the fowl had met its demise very recently, and had not begun rotting and dripping yet. And she had to wear it on her head?

"I, eh, have to go now," noted Gabrielle. There was not much choice involved, she had let go of the table when it started to drag.

"I will lift the spell on the tether," said Stanislaw, handing Gabrielle the diadem. She took it reluctantly between two fingers. A second thought had worked out something important, and it tried to get her to say something as the wizard brought his wand down.

"Wait! No! It - aaah!" The magical stretch removed, the leather returned to its original length. Gabrielle on one end lost the battle of inertia to Soleil on the other, and was yanked forcefully from the tent. The diadem dropped to the ground, feathers swirling in her wake.

The flight was brief, owing to the magical acceleration, and nearly horizontal to the ground, also due to the initial acceleration. It ended at Soleil, whom she slammed into as if the Abraxan was a fur-covered wall. It hurt, a lot, because of, again, acceleration, but this time in the opposite sense. Gabrielle fell to the ground, winded and dazed. The second thoughts that had nearly worked out the start of this current debacle in time were now puzzling over Soleil's reaction. Startle an Abraxan and they will almost always jump into the air, since fewer threats can fly. And, since their legs and hooves were not then occupied, they will kick. It was a very effective survival instinct, since if the kick connected then the animal would also be propelled away from the danger, although the danger would itself likely be broken and bleeding. Soleil was, despite his reputation, trained, but not that well-trained. That she was alive meant that something was wrong, and Soleil was her responsibility. Gabrielle needed to check on the colt, once she could stand. Nothing, decided Gabrielle, felt broken.

Standing, or at least being upright, happened much sooner than Gabrielle expected, thanks to Stanislaw and his wand. She dangled just above the ground, now away from the crushing hooves. Of course, it was his fault in the first place, and if she could catch a large enough breath she would tell him exactly how big an idiot he was. Soleil whinnied in distress, and Gabrielle could now see the source of his unease. There was another of the crude little dolls made from bent twigs in front of him. Nona had been by, realized Gabrielle. The colt kept a wary eye on it, and shifted nervously, slowly inching sideways, now towards her.

Gabrielle tried to move to the doll to pick it up, and to reassure poor Soleil, but that was not possible suspended in the air as she was. It was Stanislaw who stepped in front of the Abraxan and scooped up the roughly-made figure. He stepped back with his prize, and Soleil turned to nuzzle Gabrielle, which set her drifting. Then the colt, with the threat gone and probably looking to save face, rounded on the German.

"Nein, du Teufel," growled Stanislaw, thrusting out the doll. Soleil stopped his advance and sidled to the side.

"Hey! You leave him alone," called Gabrielle weakly. It was not clear whom she was addressing, and both man and beast looked at her. It was Stanislaw who stepped back, possibly because an Abraxan will not, but he was smiling in a predatory way.

"Stop by before the evening meal's preparations, liebchen. I will have you present my compliments to Nona," said Stanislaw. His wand lifted Gabrielle up higher, and over onto Soleil's back.

Gabrielle, peeved that someone was casting spells on her, snapped, "Why not tell her yourself?" The dead bird, and the enchanted diadem it covered, sailed from the tent, bumping her in the chest.

"This is not the first time I have met a Nona. They go back to the time when wizards stayed in their towers and fought. Herr Professor has scrolls with the history. The Nona do not trust wizard magic. You can not use your want, ja?"

"Eh, no," answered Gabrielle. What, wondered Gabrielle, was he talking about?

"The Nona prefer die alte Magie, the old magic. They want little to do with those they think of as wizards. You respect their wishes if you want their help," explained Stanislaw.

Other than cooking the meals, thought Gabrielle, Nona did not seem to help with anything. Except, she supposed, with Soleil once or twice. "You could have had a house-elf from Beauxbatons to do the cooking," pointed out Gabrielle. She wondered if the house-elves at Beauxbatons were as unhappy during the summers as that Dobby claimed the Hogwarts elves were.

"The cooking? That is nothing. Sebastion would do it, as before," said Stanislaw dismissively. Gabrielle shuddered, recalling the awful stews from the first camp. "The Nona... arranges... access to the sites."

"They, eh, she does?"

"Yes. This is an old country, even after the Communists."

v - v - v - v - v

"Soleil! Fly lower, over there!" shouted Gabrielle, arm outstretched. The trees were not so thick below, and she had seen something. "Over there!" Soleil tucked his wings and plummeted. Gabrielle gripped his mane and held on as she drifted off the colt's back. She enjoyed this part of flying, even on the school's brooms, which would tumble as well. With Soleil, though, she was sure the fall would end before they reached the ground.

The Abraxan spread his wings abruptly, and they no longer fell but swooped low over the trees. Gabrielle leaned out over Soleil's neck to search for the luminous, golden shape. There! It - was - a unicorn. It was amazing that it was here at all, thought Gabrielle. The woods below were anything but deep and wild. "Can you land, Soleil, among the trees? Is it too much?" This was a kind of game, which, a guilty second thought noted, was a lie. The question was really just a kind of manipulation, since the colt was too proud to back down from a challenge. Gabrielle tried not to use the ploy too often, but she really wanted to look at the unicorn because, well, one should always take time to look at a unicorn.

The branches whipped Gabrielle as Soleil plunged through them, and she mentally kicked herself for not waiting until there more of a clearing. The Abraxan was leaving a sizable hole in the canopy, and there were resounding cracks as heavier tree limbs gave way. It will be your fault, warned a worried thought, if he is hurt.

Soleil landed heavily, with a bounding hop that thudded loudly in the former quiet of the woods. Gabrielle could no longer see the unicorn, but had not expected to with an arrival like that. She took off the diadem and rappelled down from the colt's high back using the tether, checking for cuts and other injuries. "Are you hurt Soleil? Show me your wings! Eh, please?" The Abraxan ignored her, watching something. The hairs on the back of her neck went up.

It was the unicorn, which stood half hidden behind the trunks of a thicket of saplings. The creature was young, possibly just a colt itself, with an ebony horn that contrasted with the glowing, pale gold of its coat. Its head was narrower than Impudanae's, and the beard on the muzzle was shorter. The young unicorn was beautiful, and Gabrielle stood motionless to watch. Why, some part of her wondered, was Soleil acting like that? Then the Abraxan stomped and snorted, flaring its wings. Wings which, Gabrielle was able to see, had quite a few feathers out of place. She would have to be more careful with him. "Calm down, Soleil. It is only a unicorn; you'll frighten it." That was, of course, thought Gabrielle, his intent. Gabrielle stepped back out of stomping range - even with the special footwear it would hurt - and Soleil immediately whinnied. "You have seen unicorns before," said Gabrielle, her brow wrinkling in confusion. "There was Impy, when he was hurt?"

Something was very wrong. That much, thought Gabrielle, was obvious. Perhaps Soleil had hit his head on the way down? It was a problem, her problem, made much worse because she was tied to the winged horse. If Soleil, crazed by the injury, started fighting or suddenly bolted into the air, well, there would be no way to avoid the insane old healer afterwards. She turned back to the unicorn, a creature known for its calming presence in a forest. It was close now, hobbling toward Gabrielle with a mad look in its eyes. Hobbling, because wrapped around the pastern, just above the hoof, of its right rear leg was a shiny strand of metal. Gabrielle recognized it as, eh, consternation, or something, wire; she had seen it just outside of Paris, strung along roof tops. A muggle, mechanical wire with double-edged blades spaced along it, it was nasty even to look at. "It is hurt!" blurted Gabrielle to Soleil, and she moved toward the dangerous horn. At least she could try to remove the twisted metal.

The unicorn lunged forward stabbing with its jet-black spear, blind with agony. The horn sliced the air where Gabrielle no longer was, having been jerked from her feet by a violent tug from Soleil. She lay, lightly dazed after tumbling end over end. The unicorn, because of its injured leg, was unable to recover from its thrust and stumbled, presenting its side to Soleil. The Abraxan pivoted once more and prepare to deliver a kick from its rear legs that could, and did, topple small buildings. "Stop!" cried Gabrielle, struggling to untangle the tether. "Has everyone in these woods lost their senses?"

As if in reply, Soleil staggered awkwardly from his aborted kick, catching up his wings in the branches of a clump of trees. The unicorn finally got its legs under it and darted blindly away from the huge Abraxan, embedding its horn into the trunk of a different tree. A small, ratty owl swooped down on the disguised diadem, sinking its talon in. The weight badly misjudged, it failed to get airborne again, flopping forward with the diadem and corpse on top as it flailed underneath. Lastly, a squirrel skittered down the tree nearest Gabrielle, who had been dragged along as Soleil lurched, and tried to climb into her lap.

v - v - v - v - v

The unicorn, a mare, was no less upset after getting its horn stuck in a tree but was a lot easier to approach. Gabrielle put her hand on its horn as if it was still a threat, since the creature had to be terribly embarrassed. She stroked the silky hair of its beard and spoke gently, trying to ease its anxiety. She even sang the unicorn song, which the mare did not seem to enjoy as much as Impy did. Then, because Soleil was giving her a Look, she explained to him in a whisper, and with a roll of her eyes, that, yes, it was the Abraxan song but that she had changed the words. Gabrielle then vowed that she would visit Abby. She was spending too much time talking to animals.

Not that either the squirrel or the owl had much to say. The owl, when it was not tearing off bits from its 'kill', just hopped excitedly. She refused to believe it had actually delivered the message, if that is what bouncing about with spleen tangling from one's beak meant. No owl could get to France and back so quickly. And why had it not brought back a reply? The squirrel just answered everything with endless tail flicks, which meant Gabrielle had no idea why it was there or what, besides, perhaps, food, it wanted. The rodent-like animal clung to the back of her blouse like she was a tree trunk. It easily evaded her attempts to shoo it away.

Gabrielle was able to free the unicorn, both from the tree and from the cruel entanglement. The first was done with an expert, if not Outstanding - which it would have been if the Mademoiselles Deudancorp had not borne such a grudge - bit of transfiguration. She had already apologized anyway, several times. The gleaming black horn had pierced the tree completely. Which meant there was a hole in the trunk, like the hole in the handle of a tea cup. And so it became, widening enough to free the unicorn as the trunk bulged out to form the cup. Briefly, that is, since the whole top of the tree began to topple. Gabrielle cancelled the magic quickly. She could not tell if the top of the tree had always been at that angle or not. She decided not to try some sort of hair-straightening spell on it.

The method of removing the the tangled consternation - constant-stirring? Philippe would know - wire was clever as well, in Gabrielle's judgement. Before trying to work the leg free, Gabrielle slid twigs in between the metal blades and the bloody wounds. She had happened upon a patch of dittany while collecting twigs, too. Probably dittany; she wished she had her books. A potion was impossible here, but a poultice of some sort would help, if only a little. And if it was dittany. The unicorn had calmed down once its horn was freed, possibly because Gabrielle carefully avoided mentioning the faux pas. Her grip prevented the mare from stabbing Soleil with the spiral spike; his low nickering may have meant that he did make a comment.

Everything was going very well, up to the point when Gabrielle cut herself on the vicious wire. Con - concerted, that was more like it, wire is essentially covered in knife blades; it was almost to be expected. Gabrielle instinctively put the injured finger in her mouth, sucking at the pain. A mineral taste filled her mouth, and she pulled the bleeding digit out to inspect it. Gabrielle paled at the sight. Her hands, her fingers save one, were smeared with the silver-blue blood of the unicorn. She had drunk unicorn blood. "Oh mon Dieu, whispered Gabrielle in horror. "I am cursed. Merde. Merde!"

The tangled metal came away with one final twist. It is not fair, thought Gabrielle morosely. The reason a person drank unicorn blood should count for something. What would she tell Maman? Papa? His connections at the ministry would be of no help now. She reached for the scraggly dittany she had found, not the best specimens, she knew, but look where they grew. Unless it was not dittany; she was not looking forward to mashing the bitter leaves by chewing. If only, thought Gabrielle tragically, I had spit out the blood. Actually, piped up an optimistic thought, there may still be time. Perhaps the blood had to be digested first before diffusing into the humours. If she could get it out of her system, there was possibly, probably still hope!

"I, eh, will need bandages for the pastern," announced Gabrielle. She would go back to the camp quickly, treat herself, then come back. It was a good plan, certainly Soleil was ready to leave, but the unicorn made obvious its intent to limp gingerly after them. Even after Gabrielle pointed out that the Abraxan had wings, and that they would be flying. She reached down to pick up the diadem, which was now hidden under a dead, eviscerated vulture. "Vous," said Gabrielle addressing the now dozy owl, "sucez." As for the squirrel, hopefully it would fall off in flight.

Gabrielle was sliding down Soleil's neck to the Abraxan's broad back, using her original mounting technique, when a second thought stopped her. What if the unicorn persisted? It would have to cross the farmer's fields to get to the camp. Even a muggle would notice such a creature in the open like that. They might try to catch it, or worse! Gabrielle could not just let that happen; it was a unicorn. She eyed the young mare. It was much smaller than Soleil, but already the size of a normal horse. The only way to conceal both animals was for the Abraxan to carry the unicorn, but Gabrielle doubted that flying would be possible. She swung down off of Soleil on the tether, which earned her an impatient stamp of a hoof the size of a dinner plate. "Soleil, you must, eh, carry the unicorn," insisted Gabrielle smiling her best smile; it might help.

That did not sit well with the colt. Soleil became quite petulant. Dangerously petulant. He was jerking the tether and purposefully stepping on the protective metal footwear, though he never did hurt her. The unicorn, who Gabrielle decided to name Hemorrhoid because of where the mare was a pain in, looked on dubiously while Gabrielle argued with the giant flying horse. Gabrielle knew the winning argument though. "Montaigne, eh, would do it..."


	20. A Pain In The

Chapter Twenty - A Pain In The...

Coaxing the unicorn onto Soleil's back had been a nightmare, and Gabrielle hoped that the reverse would be easier. The Abraxan was huge and powerful, but it was built for flying, and pride did not last long as a source of energy. Thankfully, stubbornness dwindled less quickly. Soleil was breathing hard and heavily lathered by the time they made it back to his stall. He would get a half a bottle of the whiskey, straight, and a good, thorough brushing because, judged Gabrielle, he deserved it.

Gabrielle wondered if she would need to groom the unicorn, Hemorrhoid, as well to calm her, since it was unnatural for such a creature to be up in the air. The mare had lain across Soleil's back stiffly, her eyes showing at once irritation and terror. It was clearly magical that its muzzle had any beard left at all for all that Gabrielle had tugged at it in reassurance. The stress only grew when the time to dismount arrived. The weeks of chores, the metric ton, and the metal overshoes had filled out Gabrielle's arms and legs, but had not made her anymore useful as a counter-weight. When the mare slid forward off Soleil's shoulders, Gabrielle did not slow its descent but simply followed. The unicorn landed gracefully, at least the front half of Hemorrhoid. Gabrielle did not land with any grace. Her fall was cushioned by a soft spot on the floor of the stall; she wished it had been hard. "Merde," groaned Gabrielle, and that covered all aspects of the situation. Was this the curse already? At least the squirrel now fled her new fragrant condition, scampering back up the tether to high ground. It was disgusting, but that was not important right now. She had to get the unicorn blood out of her system. Gabrielle turned to go, and found the mare trailing her.

"Eh, no. You can stay here," said Gabrielle patiently. "With Soleil." An equine look of disgust crossed the unicorn's face as it eyed the floor of the stall with a tilt of its head. "I will clean it! I do every day!" How rude, thought Gabrielle. Hemorrhoid indeed. "I will - bring - a dressing for your leg, yes?" The mare did not seem to disagree, but when Gabrielle headed back out of the stall, so did the unicorn. "No, no. People will see - " Gabrielle stopped in mid-scold. The mare was not following her; it was being nudged out of the stall by Soleil.

"Soleil! Stop that! She is injured and you are - No!" demanded Gabrielle. The unicorn kicked back at the Abraxan with its good rear leg, catching him in the neck. It had to have hurt, but Soleil was used to fighting with other Abraxans. He barely flinched from the blow which had pitched the mare forward. Another near goring for her! "What is wrong with you two?" An observant thought noted: mare, stallion.

Gabrielle put her hands on her hips and glared. Soleil lowered his head first, but even the unicorn glanced away. If only, thought Gabrielle, that would work on people, like it did for Maman. "I can dress your leg in my tent," started Gabrielle finally. Why not? There was a very large common room, more supplies, and sinks for washing up. Anyway, Soleil's stall was crowded with both animals and the makeshift bed. "I, eh, will have to ride on you to use the, eh, diadem. Otherwise people will see." It was probably better to keep them apart, in case Soleil was tempted to act like a stallion.

Gabrielle beckoned the unicorn to come closer to the wall, the boards of which Gabrielle would climb to make mounting Hemorrhoid easier. The mare sidled forward, then swung its horn to catch the one of the many pockets on the front of Gabrielle's blouse. Fabric tore and buttons flew. "Hey! Watch out!" cried Gabrielle, stepping back only to find she was against the wall. The insane creature snagged the blouse again. It was a careful and deliberate act, not that that was a comfort to Gabrielle. The garment gained another hole before Gabrielle could disentangle herself. The unicorn bent its head down and now tried to catch the leg of her slacks. The injury, Gabrielle now realized with regret, had driven it mad. It was not a helpful thought to have while battling the black horn, nor was the accusation by a traitorous thought questioning her own sanity for bringing it back to camp. Why, though, did it suddenly hate her clothes?

Ah, thought Gabrielle, remembering Monique. "That is, eh, just a myth! You should know this. I have ridden Impy with my clothes on. Eh, he is a unicorn too." The blouse was Maman's purchase, but the slacks were her real clothes, so Gabrielle wrestled with the ebony weapon more desperately. "Okay! Okay! Be seen if you want! I'm sure Stanislaw could sell your, eh, horn. Or stay here. I don't want to ride you if you are like this." Oh Merlin, sighed Gabrielle, now her slacks had a rip too. She never had gotten the fabric repair spells to work right. Or at all, except for making ragged buttonholes. Which really might have just been tears. Maybe, thought Gabrielle, I should have Soleil kick Hemorrhoid. Just a little.

Instead, Gabrielle turned once again to leave. Time was not on her side, and she did not want to be cursed. The unicorn did not follow her out, but stood at the opening and whinnied plaintively. It was the first real sound the animal had made, so Gabrielle turned back to check if Soleil was causing trouble. Hemorrhoid shuffled over to wait next to the wall, looking embarrassed. The mare's presence might be the curse itself, mused Gabrielle with another sigh. She returned to the stall and settled onto the mare's back gently. The silky hair felt so odd compared to Soleil's, and there was so little back in comparison. Riding Soleil was like sitting on a table. "It is not far. Eh, there is a large hole on the way. Be careful you don't fall," encouraged Gabrielle gently. Oh, thought Gabrielle, that was a Look.

Taking Hemorrhoid back to the tent was a good idea, decided Gabrielle, even though there was bound to be some vanishing needed at some point. She would not have to chew the possible - probable - dittany, but could use the mortar and pestle from potions that was still in the handbag. Gabrielle also checked on Poisseux while rummaging in her belongings. He still had an, eh, iron grip on the cup from the burned barn, and shaking him failed to loosen it. His behavior was completely ridiculous; Gabrielle let him know that he was being a Bad Toad and stuffed the faux amphibian back into the handbag.

Once the poultice, which Gabrielle had to admit was probably unneeded, was tied just above the unicorn's hoof, she turned to her own treatment. She bit the 'bad' end of the Late Night Curry Skiving Snackbox, very spicy, and brought the bucket closer. She had seen the outcome of using this type of Skiving Snackbox often enough. Which she found odd because the results were really only funny the first few times, and Healer Maltranchier would only be fooled once or twice, if at all. Her stomach gurgled ominously.

Gabrielle did not, as expected, vomit with what all boys thought of as amusing force or color. That is, she did not immediately vomit. Instead, she had an urgently dire need for a toilet. The kind of urgency that makes one drop everything and run while making swimming motions with one's arms, in case that would help.

In the very brief interlude of peace between torrential evacuations, Gabrielle realized two things would help, both of which she had dropped. One was the bucket, which she very badly needed. A respite at one end just meant that the other end of her would begin spewing. The other was the 'good' half of the Snackbox, a most horrifying realization. One that made the bucket fairly pointless, as it would be filled in no time. There was no way to get it either. She could not cast the summoning spell quickly enough before her stomach purged itself again. By design, a second thought supposed. Gabrielle was positive that her internal organs were liquefying and exiting her. It was only a matter of time before her heart blasted out in front or splashed out below, and that would be the end of her. At least, thought Gabrielle, she would not die cursed. The unicorn blood had to be gone now, since her liver and kidneys probably were.

Help, when it finally came, scrabbled along the wall trim with the vital antidote held in its mouth. It was the squirrel, its tail flicking nervously. "Thank Merlin yo-blargh!" began Gabrielle and ended with a fountain. "You brought the wh- aaa-ack!" The tree-dweller, still unused to the magical, was clearly out of its element. The only thing it seemed sure about was not touching the floor, or, most likely, the small lake of sick covering it. "Come closer and I will put out my hand," said Gabrielle, three syllables and two litres at a time.

The squirrel, whom Gabrielle now dubbed Sauveuret, carried out the piecemeal instructions. The needed bite of the Wheeze bounced off her hand and landed in the gruesome lake on the floor, but Gabrielle was beyond caring. She was slightly miffed when the squirrel jumped easily to her shoulder, though, since it could have said that it could get closer. That was, she knew, a very ungrateful way of thinking. The unreadable tail had been flicking about constantly. The thought had been nearly Fleur-like. Which was another ungracious moment. Gabrielle put it down to her spleen being vented forcefully from her body. She waited for a lull, found a nearly clean part of her ruined blouse to dry the dripping half, and, ignoring whose mouth it had already been in, put it in her own. The seesaw spewing ceased, which was a relief. The smell did not. At least the toilet had been magical. A muggle one might not have kept up.

v - v - v - v - v

Harry flew along, following the others but at a higher altitude, and considered the wizarding economy. Many of the wizards and witches he knew worked at the Ministry of Magic and Hogwarts. Bill Weasley worked at Gringotts, while Fred and George had their shop. There were quidditch teams, and St. Mungo's too. The Ministry seemed pretty large, but where did the run-of-the-mill, average witch or wizard fit in? Was there a dole? Pensioners? Harry had once dreamed of being an auror, but now would not trust the Ministry at all. What if, though, he could not even make the reserve squad of the Chudley Cannons? The thing he was best at was flying a broom. Was there, perhaps, a secret courier service not run by the Ministry? The horrible image of being paid in owl treats popped into Harry's head. Fred and George offered piecework for the manufacturing of their Wheezes, but how many magical households could that support?

Actually, considered Harry, a lot of the wizarding families were what Aunt Petunia would longingly refer to as 'old money'. The Malfoys leapt to Harry's guilty mind, along with a memory of how they had outfitted the Slytherin quidditch team. Where had their galleons come from in the first place? Harry had, ages ago, heard that the Malfoys had sold some rare magical items. Was that the source?

Another thought caught Harry by surprise. He was, he supposed, 'old money' as well, even if he did not actually know what the Potter vault currently contained. The pile of gold he had once glimpsed looked huge, and he had not really spent any of it. That made the future seem a little brighter. Which, obviously, was putting the carriage before the thestral, since if Voldemort was not defeated there was no future. He would have to -

"Oy! Potter!" Ginny, riding behind him, interrupted his thoughts. "They've stopped. Didn't you see the red sparks?"

Harry pulled up hard on the Firebolt, looping up tightly before twisting upright once they were inverted. It was called the McDoogle Bacio before it was the Immelmann Turn, but Harry was more impressed by the muggle pilot coaxing his primitive plane into the manuever than the wizard on a broom. Ginny smacked his head. "Can you at least give a little warning before doing that?"

"Sorry, Gin. I, er, didn't notice the signal," apologized Harry. What he was thinking was, why did Ginny not hold him tighter? He searched the ground below for the heat-shimmer affect of the disillusion charms used.

"Really, Harry? I sort of guessed that."

Harry spotted not the almost invisible forms he had expected, but Weasley red below. That was surprising. Were they there? There, of course, being wherever George was leading them. The countryside they flew over looked very ordinary, and they were still near the coast. "Hey Gin? Wronski Feint."

"Go on. Then its my turn."

v - v - v - v - v

Gabrielle took careful aim at the pile of manure and vanished it, from four meters away. It might have been a personal best, but since she did not normally try for distance she might be able to go further. Nor did she normally use the rustic wand with her Grandmere's hair at its core. Gabrielle chose it this time based on its vigor and the size of the messes. She had only made the attempt because, after cleaning the bathroom, she realized that she had quite a talent for vanishing filth. It was all the practice - the metric ton. Such a talent was best kept secret from others, though, or else she would be expected to use it all the time.

Hemorrhoid had obviously eaten a large breakfast, and explored a number of the unused bedrooms. Gabrielle's skill was applied several times. Fortunately, the digestion of a unicorn was not nearly as exotic as an Abraxan's, and the trail she followed not as eye-watering.

Gabrielle found the unicorn regarding itself in a mirror inside the bedroom of one of the unoccupied suites, tapping the glass with its horn. Lucky for her, thought Gabrielle, that the mirror was not able to express its opinion of that. The mare turned away from Gabrielle with a snuffling snort. I will have to burn these clothes, thought Gabrielle, but she still felt slighted. She wondered if she would be allowed to go to a nearby town to buy more clothing, but then she realized sadly that it would not matter. She did not have any - no, that was not right. Papa had sent muggle money, the strange, eh, leks. The language was a problem, especially if it strayed from potatoes, onions, or cabbage and the peeling or chopping of the same. Which meant asking Nona. Gabrielle almost burst into laughter imaging the dour old crone in a stylish Paris shop, helping Fleur pick out things that would be rejected later.

There was fresh blood seeping through the poultice, so perhaps it had not been dittany that she had used. Gabrielle decided to fetch the last of the salve from Professor Elevagre. The stupid owl had managed to get in; it was roosting on the horns of a dead antelope head, which was glaring at the impertinent bird. Gabrielle hoped that Sauveuret would be safe, though it was just as likely the squirrel would emerge victorious in a tussle with the pitiful owl. She had just finished redressing the wounded leg of the less than appreciative unicorn when she heard voices. It was not time to prepare the meals already? Gabrielle hoped not, and especially hoped that Nona did not have a customer, since that would probably mean another bucket of water. Or two in this case.

One of the voices was Professor Festeller. Gabrielle would, yes, recognize his, yes, voice, yes, anywhere. He probably wanted her to stand next to something that would then explode. She was very glad that she had not called out, but while she and Hemorrhoid could not be seen in the back of the suite, it would not take much effort to discover them. That would be a complete disaster, and likely a goring. Gabrielle looked about the bedroom for something to hide them better. Or at least her. She did not recognize who the professor was speaking to, but whoever it was was not supposed to touch anything, at all, ever. She wondered if one of the Goblet's other victims was joining her. There had been another girl.

"[Wot an arse.]" Gabrielle's head snapped around. That was English, and familiar.

"[You don't even know what he said, Ron,]" said the voice that Gabrielle had not recognized. She did so now, and it sent her into a panic. It was Hermione's voice; the other was Ron Weasley's. That meant that Harry Potter and Ginny Weasley would be there. And George, who had gone to France to visit her, and who had now come all the way to wherever this was in Albania! Also, she supposed, Fred. Gabrielle looked into the slightly cracked mirror and nearly died. She was absolutely repulsive, with torn clothing covered in vomit and manure. Even her hair was hideous - it had been lopsidedly nibbled.

"[I can tell he was being a bloody pillock.]"

"[Language, Ron. Anyway, he is studying time-turners and we were the ones - ]" began Hermione.

"[No, sorry. As objectionable as you all are, I think it's me.]" Gabrielle was right. That was George speaking. Or Fred. And he was right. This was a Beauxbatons expedition, after all. "[They do like their wine at Buxombatons,]" continued George.

"[Speaking of objectionable, what - is - that smell?]" That, thought Gabrielle, was definitely Ginny. "[We're not really going to stay here?]"

"[After that wonderful lie of dying last wishes and secret missions our Harry told? Would be rude to walk out now. 'Sides, I know that smell,]" replied George.

"[I think I'll pass on a career in the pranks industry.]"

"[I didn't lie, erm, to him,]" claimed Harry, which was followed by a derisive snort. "[I didn't!]"

"[So that blather about Madame Maxine and having permission?]"

"[I said - I - didn't lie to him. It was Hermione that -]"

"[Harry!]"

"[I could stand you being the Heir of Slytherin, but a budding solicitor? Merlin.]"

"[Gigi?]" called out Ginny. "[Is she here? Let's get her and find another tent to talk. I can't take this stench much longer.]"

At this point, Gabrielle would have jumped out of the window. There was a window, but it was not a real window. It was easy to tell because the towers of Beauxbatons were visible in the background. She had moved all the mattresses to her room, so there was nothing to hide under. She could not even seal the door because it was still open. Also, she did not actually know a door-sealing spell. And what was she supposed to do with Hemorrhoid? The unicorn had tried to stab her even though she had been trying to help it, and now there were at least three boys in the common room. Two boys and George, sighed a second thought. Gabrielle could not just leave the creature now. Perhaps if she just stayed quiet...

"[I think she's in that room,]" announced George.

"[Bay-dar can pick up Gigi?]" asked Ginny, sounding suspicious.

"[Oy! Gigi!]" bellowed Ron. "[Maybe she can't hear us.]"

"[I rather doubt that,]" said Hermione tersely. Gabrielle suspected that she had been next to Ron.

"[Isn't anyone else disturbed by that?]"

"[You get used to it after rooming with him,]" said Harry. Like Hermione, Gabrielle rather doubted that.

"[What I meant was, isn't anyone else wondering how we came directly here?]"

"[Well, it's in the middle of a field, isn't it? We could hardly have missed it,]" replied Harry.

"[I'm going to count that as an attempt at humor, Potter. 'Cause if it wasn't, we're done.]"

"[Sorry, Ginny.]"

"[Oh, come on. Let's just have a look,]" urged Hermione.

Gabrielle made her own decision. "[Je suis ici! Eh, I am 'ere. Zat is, I am here. I am healing a, eh...]" She paused to reconsider. If she said it was a unicorn, then the others would definitely want to see it. Hemorrhoid would feel trapped and likely lash out. Gabrielle eyed the animal, looking for signs of stress or, eh, oncoming rampage. The unicorn had twisted back on itself, seemingly investigating the new dressing. "[A strong animal. Very strong and, eh, fierce. It is best zat you go into a room, eh, until I am finished.]" Gabrielle found herself waving her hand imperiously, even though they could not see her.

"[Certainly a strong and fierce stink to it.]"

"[Should we give you a hand?]" asked Harry. Gabrielle really hated that expression.

"[Non! Eh, no. No zank you. Ze creature, she is shy,]" said Gabrielle quickly. Although the shyness was on the wane, with the unicorn poking its horn at her clothing again. "[Stop zat!]"

Gabrielle's exclamation coincidentally followed a crash from the common room. "[It was Harry!]" declared Ron.

"[What?]" asked Harry. "[I haven't done a thing.]"

"[Oh, Ron,]" sighed Hermione.

"[This isn't getting us anywhere,]" said George decisively. "[Let's duck in here and wait for her to finish with her fiercely shy patient.]"

Gabrielle, hand firmly on the probing horn, listened until she had heard a door close. She turned to the unicorn, then stopped as another door closed. More followed. Were they, puzzled Gabrielle, splitting up? That was odd. She addressed Hemorrhoid gently, "You must stay here until I can get you out. You will be safe; they are very nice, but, eh, sometimes loud. Very loud, with Ron.]" The unicorn, which was the quietest horse Gabrielle had ever known, swished its tail. A head bob or a snort, thought Gabrielle, would be more definitive. It would have to do though. She tilted the bed frame - the metric ton - onto its side. "This will hide you more." Not much more; the mare was already taller than it. Another tail swish - possibly yes, possibly flies.

Gabrielle slipped off her shoes and protective overshoes, peeked cautiously around the door frame, then sprinted silently for her room. A quick, but thorough, shower, then she would put on the stretchy green top and the Hogwarts skirt. Also, eh, a hat. The skirt did not really go with the top, but considering the effect that the plain skirt had had on George the last time she wore it, he would not notice the top. A year older now, Gabrielle was a little more interested in that effect, and anxious about it. She barrelled through her door, sliding in her socks through the sitting area. She would be ready in no time at all! Gabrielle half ran, half hopped into the bedroom, the torn, filthy slacks already pushed down past her thighs.

Which made it very easy to slip and fall over backwards if, for example, one had to stop very suddenly. Which Gabrielle did, with a squeak, right at George's feet. He was in her room! They were in her room! He - they were in her room and she was almost in her underwear! Why were they in her room? There was no time for the explanation, or the question. At least dressed like that. Gabrielle kicked off the slacks desperately; it was easier than trying to pull them back on, and pulling them back on would not make them un-see what they had seen. She scrambled for the bathroom, slammed the door closed with a boom, and then slumped against it breathless. The flush of embarrassment came too late to matter.

"[Wot the 'ell was that?]" asked Ron.

"[Good to see she hasn't changed,]" laughed Ginny. "[Still the Deranged Delacour.]"

"[Least we know what smells now. Blimey,]" complained Ron. A black pit opened under Gabrielle's self-esteem.

"[That was pretty strong,]" allowed Hermione. "[Tell me you didn't send her that Poo-Fume. _Scourgify__! __Scourgify__!_]"

"[Well, he does write,]" said Ginny. "[Why would she use it on herself though? Sent her a pranked bottle of it, did you George? Or was it Fred? George? Oh, fer Merlin's sake.]" There was the sounds of brief scuffle.

"[Oy! What was that that for?"] demanded George.

"[Well how long were you going to stand there gawping? Honestly!]" griped Ginny. "[She looked a disaster and smelled like dung bomb! Is that what does it for you?]" Above the black pit, a light appeared.

"[Not just dung - there's the piquant aroma of a Late Night Curry Snackbox mixed in. Her hair is different too,]" noted George. A bright light! "[There's got to be a laugh in how she ended up like that.]" Slightly dimmer now.

"[And here I was wondering if she really was part Veela. You probably memorized the color of her knickers. Can you imagine Fleur smelling like that?]"

"[Erm, can you give it a bit of a rest, Ginny? She's only in the other room, and we need her help,]" said Harry.

v - v - v - v - v

Gabrielle emerged from her shower, which had not been quite short but extra thorough. She did not smell of anything but soap! The blouse no longer smelled either, since she had eventually managed to vanish the irredeemable article. There was nothing that Gabrielle could do quickly about her hair, though. Haste makes bald patches. In her head, she heard Fleur's voice asking, "Have you - looked - in a mirror?" She had had no idea her hair was - so - raggedly lopsided. Gabrielle knew she would have to let Soleil nibble the other side also, or stop him altogether. And she had no illusions there as to which was the more likely one to work.

"[Eh, Ginny?]" called Gabrielle through the narrowest of gaps in the door. "[Hello?]"

"[Cor, it's about time! What is it now?]"

"[I, eh, need clothes.]" Gabrielle did not even have her housecoat, only the scratchy white towel that came with the tent. Ginny huffed in response, as if Gabrielle was always asking for things. "[Zere is a green top, and ze skirt from Hogwarts, in ze wardrobe, eh, please. Also, eh, underwear,]" requested Gabrielle. The last was said in a whisper. It was, Gabrielle felt, a little embarrassing. The others would hopefully not see these 'knickers' on her also, but, even so, it was a little strange knowing that they knew what color the undergarments were. Gabrielle hoped Ginny would be able to find everything, since -

"[Here, that should do,]" declared Ginny, thrusting a bundle through the partially opened door. Gabrielle almost thanked the older girl by polite reflex, but she could see that Ginny had gotten it wrong. How could anyone mistake denims for a skirt?

"[Eh, no. Ze skirt is in the bottom of ze -]"

"[You can play dress-up later,]" interrupted Ginny, pulling the door closed. Gabrielle frowned. Ginny was definitely in a Mood. Her shower had not taken that long, so the reason must be something else. Ginny, Gabrielle concluded, must be having trouble with Harry.

In addition to the unwanted denims, Ginny had not given her the tight-fitting green top, but the white blouse with the embroidery. The redhead had, noticed Gabrielle, chosen her own former clothes that Gabrielle had been given when she had stayed at the Burrow. One way to think of that was to see Ginny as picking the clothes she thought looked best. That Ginny was not going to wear them did not matter; it was a sisterly gesture. Another way was to believe that Ginny thought her requests had showed terrible fashion sense. That, sighed Gabrielle, was also very much a sisterly gesture.

Once dressed, a suspicious thought suggested another possibility. The full length denims completely hid what nearly a year of iron boots had shaped, and the blouse was still a little too big for her. The overall effect was to make her look smaller. And younger, as in too young. And her hair was stupid. Perhaps she could try just a tiny hair spell...

"[Oy in there! I've got to use the loo!]" demanded Ron, pounding on the door. The indelicate request came at a delicate moment, and Gabrielle stumbled over the last syllables. The last, crucial syllables. She gritted her teeth in fury as she started in the mirror. She - knew - she should not have tried it, and now - look - at her hair!

Actually, whispered another thought cautiously, it is not so bad. Her hair was definitely not even. In fact, it could not be any less even or she would not have any hair at all on the one side. But, it did look intentional, instead of as if she had been gnawed at. Intentionally asymetrical was often called dramatic, if not good, although Fleur would describe it as "art-damaged". Gabrielle was, according to her Maman, going through phases. This, she decided, would be one of them. She took a lock of hair from the long side and tied it up with the also thoroughly washed Pepi-Z's tether. He looked a little lonely, so she broke off pieces of soap and transfigured them into beads. The new ornaments looked interesting, though they were the color of soap. If Ron was not so rudely pounding on the door she might have been able to change the color. I am, Gabrielle told herself after an inspection, beyond fashion, avante-garde.

That self-possession was harder to maintain outside the bathroom. The older girls clamped their hands to their faces in an attempt not to laugh. Harry did not, but a smack from Ginny reduced it to snickering. Ron pushed past her so quickly that Gabrielle wondered if he had had some Late Night Curry. She should have told him to use another toilet, especially since the bucket was still in the other bathroom. That left only George, who was doubled over from laughing so hard.

Laughing at her! That was not right. Gabrielle knew she ought to be kicking him, but her shoes, and the metal overshoes for extra emphasis, were in with the unicorn. She put her hands on her hips and glared. This got no reaction, but she kept it up. Eventually George would stop wiping his eyes and notice her. Or her eyes would fall out of her head. When her future husband did notice her, she snapped, "- What - is so funny? [Eh, zat is, - what - is so funny?]"

"[Your hair, of course,]" said George, finishing with a bout of chortling.

"[My hair,]" said Gabrielle icily, or at least an attempt at icy, because his words stung inside.

"[It's brilliant, really. Totally barmy!]" declared George with an enthusiasm that Gabrielle found confusing. She just stared at him. "[It's bloody... uh. It, er, isn't for a laugh then?]"

"[No.]" It was only one syllable, but it caught in her throat. This was not going the way that she had hoped.

"[Are you sure?]"

"[Cor, no wonder he gets stabbed. She's got this little knife too,]" whispered Ginny.

"Oui, tu les porcs d'un homme. C'est dramatique."

"[Ah, sorry luv. They say that drama and comedy are two sides of the same mask,]" offered George, getting back up. Gabrielle wondered, what? Her English was not that rusty.

"[It's tragedy and comedy, I thought,]" opined Hermione.

"[I wouldn't call her hair tragic,]" said George. "[That's a bit harsh.]"

"[You - you laughed at it!]" exploded Gabrielle. She did not fail to notice his apology, but it only added to her confusion. Also, she would hold out for something better.

"[Not at it, with it,]" claimed George.

"[No, you - eh, what?]" asked Gabrielle. "[Zat makes no sense!]"

"[Oh, er, sorry for that too, then, luv. Come on, give us a kiss?]" George patted his cheek.

It might have been possible, if one had one's ear pressed to Gabrielle's head, to hear the little 'pock' sound of her brain exploding. He wanted her to kiss him. He wanted her to kiss him! He wanted her to kiss him? The competing thoughts battled for control of her expression. He wanted her to kiss him. Where did that come from? Was it supposed to be some sort of apology? Or a trick? He wanted her to kiss him! She knew he cared! He does write, after all. His rudeness was just his way of working up the nerve to ask her. He wanted her to kiss him? The, the, the impudence! The temerity! He had laughed at her - he did not - deserve - a kiss. It should be him kissing her!

That was a thought to rally behind, and affront won out. "[Give you ze kiss? I zink not! You will give me ze kiss! And a proper greeting,]" ordered Gabrielle. From behind her came a yodelling cry from the bathroom.

"[Ah, the benefits of fiber in one's diet,]" grinned George.

"[Exactly how much fiber?]" asked Hermione.

"[I am, eh, waiting,]" reminded Gabrielle. A second thought was wondering if she should just jumped at his request.

"[I think the more pressing concern is size rather than quantity,]" replied George as his brother howled again. Harry winced, while Hermione just put her hand to her forehead.

"[How is this a benefit?]" wondered Ginny.

Gabrielle stepped up in front of George. "[I am waiting. I have said zis.]"

"[You can go on waiting,]" muttered Ginny.

"[Here I thought you'd be happy to see us,]" said George. "[I don't know - all this shouting.]"

"[I am happy to see you. You are, eh, happy to see me?]" asked Gabrielle uncertainly. She hoped that it was the presence of the others that was making him shy. She was praying that it was, because the other possibilities were pretty bleak.

"[George, quit teasing her,]" said Hermione. The bushy-haired witch had always been Gabrielle's favorite.

"Fëmijë. Nuk është puna. Tani." Merde, thought Gabrielle. Not now.

"[Who's that?]" asked Harry. Gabrielle saw that he had his wand in his hand.

"[Zat is Nona. I, eh, help her wizz her, eh, work,]" explained Gabrielle. If pressed, she decided not to mention vegetables. No one would be impressed by that.

"Hesht, hesht. Të jetë ende, të jetë ende." That, thought Gabrielle, did not sound like Nona was calling out to her. Mostly because it was too gentle. Oh Merlin, remembered Gabrielle, the unicorn! Nona was probably too old to survive being gored. Merde again.

"[I, eh, have to go,]" said Gabrielle with a mix of irritation, regret, and rising concern. "[You must stay in here.]" She started to turn away, but George's hands caught her face.

"['Course I'm happy to see you, luv,]" grinned George, before kissing each of her cheeks lightly. It was not a real kiss at all, but there had been two, so that, decided Gabrielle, made up for it some. She smiled broadly.

"Unë jam duke pritur, fëmijë. Nuk është puna." There is always 'puna' thought Gabrielle with a sigh.

"I will come back as soon as I can but, eh, sometimes Nona does a seance for her customers," said Gabrielle, forgetting to translate. She started to go, then decided to hug George tightly, because she thought she could get away with it. She hoped that Nona was all right. There was no more dittany, if there had been any in the first place. Gabrielle hurried from the room just as Ginny began to fuss. She would have to put an end to Ginny's interference somehow; it was rude.

"[Wot I miss?]" Ron's question was the last thing that Gabrielle heard before hurrying into the common room. Nona was standing in front of the bedroom that Hemorrhoid was convalescing in. The crone looked unhurt and somewhat displeased. Which, noted a snide thought, was really the same as completely normal. Gabrielle slid to a stop, which made her look down.

Oh yes, remembered Gabrielle, my shoes. They were in with the unicorn, and still soaked with regurgitated Late Night Curry. It was one thing to vanish the many-pocketed blouse from Maman, and quite another to vanish her own shoes. Magical cleaning was not, Gabrielle had to admit, one of her talents, many talents. It took a lot of time and then she would usually have to finish the job the regular way. Hermione, though, was sure to help. "Eh, I will just get my shoes," explained Gabrielle to Nona, whether or not the old witch understood. She made to move past, but Nona grabbed her arm.

"Lëvizin ngadalë, butësisht, fëmijë," advised Nona cryptically.

"Eh, yes, of course," agreed Gabrielle just so Nona's grip loosened. She stepped into the room, intending to quickly grab the shoes and then ask Hermione to Scourgify them. Except, the footwear was not where she had left it. Who could have wanted to move her shoes? The obvious answer was George. Or Ginny. Either could have done a summoning spell while she was in the shower. Why Ginny would do this was a mystery; why George would was not. There was only one witness, so Gabrielle went into the suite's bedroom, ignoring Nona's warning, to ask Hemorrhoid.

Unicorns, realized Gabrielle, do not make good house guests. The curtains were pulled down and chewed, there a tear in the magical window that allowed a line of the actual late afternoon sun through, and, of course, the sort of mess on the floor one would expect in a stable. Had it even been a half hour yet? At least the mystery of her shoes was resolved. Hemorrhoid had managed to kick them into the unused wardrobe, which itself had been kicked so thoroughly that it no longer closed. Gabrielle wondered why the mare did not get on with Soleil; they would make quite a pair. Certainly almost nothing in the camp would be left standing if the two worked together. The dressing on the unicorn's leg showed no sign of additional bleeding. The salve had worked, or it had been dittany all along.

Nona, standing at the suite's door, watched curiously as Gabrielle hurried past with two pairs of shoes held at arm's length. Gabrielle tried to indicate with a forced grin that that was the way unicorns were, what could one do? The old witch did not say anything, but Gabrielle knew that ladle would soon be making an appearance if she was not ready soon.

Gabrielle therefore hurried back to her bedroom, pushing through the door. The little squirrel scampered in after her, then, perhaps because of the crowd of people already in the room, ran up Gabrielle's leg and tried to hide in the pocket of the denims. She did not notice. "[Excusez-moi, Hermione, you can -]"

"[Ah! Ow! Argh!]" exploded George, slapping at his chest. He clawed at his shirt.

"What - what is it? George?" cried Gabrielle, going pale. Well, paler, if one looked closely.

"[Hope it's some of that fiber rot,]" muttered Ron.

"[I don't,]" said Harry, holding his nose.

"[All right, all right! Shite,]" struggled George.

"[It was pretty impressive, wasn't?]"

"[No.]" chorused Hermione and Ginny.

"[Ah - finally. Damn near took me nipple off,]" complained the older Weasley. He dragged the metal beetle from his shirt. Gabrielle looked on with interest. She had one of those beetle things too, and, more importantly, George had partly undone his shirt to extricate the metal bug.

"[What is it? Have we been followed?]" asked Harry.

"[No. Fred, the bloody git, wants a word.]"


	21. First Contact

Chapter Twenty-one - First Contact

How, demanded Gabrielle once more of the awful fates that damned her, is this a summer holiday? She was staggering back to her tent, unsteadily, after the evening's chores. Fred may have wanted a word, but what he sent was a letter. Then another, then another, and over and over. He should have just used an owl, thought Gabrielle. She never learned what Fred wanted, because only three words into the message Nona lost her patience. The ladle had harried Gabrielle from her own bedroom, through the common room, and out of the tent. Completely mortifying - it was not the sort of exit that she would have chosen. It was, decided Gabrielle, Fred's fault. What was wrong with an owl?

Nona never regained her patience in Gabrielle's estimation. The old witch was quite put out by the little W's that Gabrielle was carving the potatoes into to celebrate George's arrival. She would have done a more appropriate G, but that proved too difficult. The extra cuts had not taken that much longer! Anyway, the preparations had all gone for naught, since neither George nor any of the others had come to the evening meal. Which, Gabrielle realized in horror, was her fault. She had told them to stay in her room because of Hemorrhoid, and had not had a chance to get them or the unicorn out. Which, noted a relieved second thought, actually made it Nona's fault. Or still Fred's.

After the meal, Gabrielle had to face Soleil, who was quite put out by the lack of attention that he felt he had deserved. The colt was only partially mollified by Gabrielle's recounting of the trouble the mare was causing. Partially mollified for an Abraxan, though, meant that something would soon be kicked, hard. Gabrielle finished the job with lavish praise for his efforts, a brushing that left her arms feeling like lead, and half a pail of single-malt whiskey, straight up. It was treatment fit for a prince; when Soleil got back to Montaigne, thought Gabrielle, one of them was in for a shock.

Nona, it turned out, was not finished with Gabrielle. The dour witch dragged her back into the cottage, where two of Nona's customers waited. Gabrielle could tell it was not a seance because it was not the fancy crystal ball on the table, and because her barrel had not a bit of padding. She sat to the side of Nona, which was unusual, and was not part of the joining of hands or the chanting - the ladle saw to that. Just why her presence was required at all then was a mystery to Gabrielle; she had not even been asked, well, ladled to serve tea. Events became even more mysterious when Nona paused to swallow most of a glass of clear liquid. She passed the remainder of the glass to Gabrielle. Had she, wondered Gabrielle, never heard of hygiene? Gabrielle took the glass, turned it exactly, conspicuously halfway, and swallowed. The bitter drink left a coating on her tongue. A second, appalled thought demanded to know why she had not bothered to even try to ask what it was. Especially after the table and chairs started to sag and drip like melting wax.

The crystal ball on the table filled with an unexpected, roiling mist. Gabrielle could see nothing in it, especially once her barrel began melting as well and she had trouble staying upright. Nona apparently could, though, and finally spoke at length to the pair of matronly women, her standard patrons. They did not seemed pleased, but no one argued with Nona. At least not for long. While the two women gathered their headscarves and handbags, Gabrielle faced Nona's scrutiny. The witch looked into Gabrielle's eyes until the crone's dark pupils were all Gabrielle could see. When Nona pulled back, she looked distinctly disappointed. And drippy, her nose a dribbling candle.

Since Nona had to escort her customers back to what Gabrielle assumed was the muggle world, Gabrielle had to leave the little cottage also. Negotiating the door as it sagged proved impossible, and the jamb twisted at the last moment and smashed into her nose. It was easier just to crawl through the shifting exit.

The after-effects of Nona's potion were one reason Gabrielle was staggering back to her tent. The other was that she was carrying half a bale of hay. It was not magically lightened; aiming her wand was difficult when it kept bending. That actually carrying the dried grass was at all reasonable was a testament to the summer enslavement.

Gabrielle careened through the opening to her tent, having thrown herself sideways away from the writhing edge of Festeller's hole. Her inelegant entry, which ended with her covered in hay after somersaulting over the heavy load, went unnoticed by the occupants of the room. The remains of the room - much of the furniture was toppled, torn, or broken. Even several of the creepy mounted animal heads that decorated the walls had fallen, with more knocked askew. It was easy to see why. The unicorn, the aptly named Hemorrhoid, was rearing and slashing its horn at the stupid little owl. The bird fluttered against the wall near the ceiling, like a moth at a window, keeping out of the horn's reach. Gabrielle was horrified by this, but then the owl dove at the unicorn's hind quarters. Seizing a hair of the silken tail in its beak, the owlet clung to it until Hemorrhoid's own thrashing sent the owl flying, plucking the hair. Gabrielle could tell by the accumulation of fallen locks on the ground that this had been going on for a while. She knew she should have tried to get a real owl instead of this ratty, useless - No, thought Gabrielle suddenly. George had arrived soon after the owl had taken her letter. He could not have travelled all the way from Paris to Albania in one day, unless he had gotten a port-key, and Gabrielle rather doubted that one could even get a port-key to this hinterland. That meant, and this was logic, that the little owl might not have been lying, and had actually delivered her post. The bird, she decided, deserved a name. A good name. Like... eh... Lieutenant Mimsey Plumes, l'hibou courrier de la Maison Delacour.

Of course, that singular accomplishment did not excuse the current behavior. "- What - is going on here?" snapped Gabrielle. Beaked and equine faces turned to her, and the tail-swishing, wing-flapping, whinnying, and hooting commenced. The squirrel, Sauveuret, emerged from the ear on the mounted head of a three-horned water buffalo and added his tail-flicking and chattering. Gabrielle did not know what to make of any of it, other than to see why the indoors was separated from the outdoors.

"I'm very disappointed in you," declared Gabrielle finally. It was a standard from Maman, remembered Gabrielle, from when she and Fleur would squabble. That was before Fleur got a wand and could always win. She moved in closer to get a grip on Hemorrhoid's horn. "Both of you," she added. Gabrielle figured that Maman said that to cover all possibilities. It was the first inkling that Maman was, perhaps, not infallible.

The ebony, spiral horn felt sticky. Gabrielle looked at her hand. There was blood smeared on it. If she was at Beauxbatons, Gabrielle would not have been surprised. Professor Elevagre was often too busy bandaging himself to clean up his charges right away. That was very gross, but Gabrielle found she could put up with quite a lot for the Outstanding. But, he was not here, and neither the owl not the squirrel looked injured. Physically injured - they certainly seemed to be insisting that they had been wronged somehow. "Eh, whose blood is this?" she asked, scanning the floor for more stains. Or, she thought with a shudder, a body. That did a lot to clear her head.

It was not a good question, and all the flailing of tails was not going to provide an answer. Gabrielle was already heading for her room, because that where the victim had most likely come from. Had she not told them to stay inside? Of the five, she knew that three were most likely to upset the unicorn. And of those three, well, she could not see Harry Potter getting killed by the creature. He had survived the centaur attack before the wedding, after all. That left only two, and in her mind Ron was easily twice as likely to annoy Hemorrhoid as George. But, logically, or perhaps numerically, that still left one chance in three that George had a gaping hole right through him, like Pippin Elmsley had had. An inappropriately pleased thought noted that George would need a lot of care to heal, and many visits. Gabrielle mentally pledged to stay at his bedside until he was fully recovered. Unless, came a more appropriately worried thought, Hemorrhoid's aim had been truer than Impy's, and George lay dying without the comfort of his one true love. She started to run.

Which would have made for a dramatic entrance, except that the door to her room did not budge at all when she collided with it. The door had been magically sealed. Gabrielle picked herself off the floor. She was locked out of her own room, which would have left her quite miffed if this had not been a crisis. She pulled out her wand and tried the curse-breaking spell. The fact that the end of her wand wobbled back and forth limply to her eyes did not matter, since she was supposed to feel around for the 'verklunk', or whatever.

Fortunately, metal overshoes make excellent door-knockers, and they worked both on the door and the wall next to it. Gabrielle was guessing that the door had been Imperturbed in addition to being sealed, but she doubted the walls had the same. She tried for a clearly non-unicorn pattern of knocks: 'wand and a cauldron, broomstick'. More like resounding clangs than knocks, really, but this was an emergency.

The door opened a few, cautious inches and the end of a willow wand emerged. "[You don't have to bash the bloody walls down,]" complained Ron, and Gabrielle's heart sank. If Ron was able to answer the door, then it was George's blood, and it was George who might even now be hovering near death, barely clinging to this world. She had to get to him, she had to be the presence that anchored his soul to this world. Gabrielle wedged herself rudely through the door and past Ron.

"[Where is 'e?]" cried Gabrielle once she had dashed through the sitting area to the bedroom. "[Is 'e still alive...]" George, Gabrielle could see, was laying, and here her breath caught a little, on her actual bed, but not covered in blood or bandages. In fact, no one appeared injured in anyway. "[Eh...]"

"[Cheers, luv,]" greeted George without the usual volume.

"[You're bloody welcome,]" groused Ron, coming up behind her.

"[Where's the fire Gigi?]"

Confused by the unexpected health, Gabrielle began to answer before thinking. "[Ze fire? It is over. Zere, zere were zese, eh, bags zat... Eh, none of you are hurt?]"

"[Disappointed are you? You might have said something about the unicorn,]" growled Ginny. Her eyes, noted Gabrielle, were reddened. More trouble with Harry.

"[So there was a fire?]" asked Hermione.

Gabrielle's more alert thoughts caught up and she ignored that question. "[I, eh, did not say? I am certain zat I did,]" said Gabrielle, though she was not very certain.

"[No, you didn't. Not specifically,]" said Hermione. Ron went over to sit back down next to her, and she leaned into him.

"[We thought the 'fiercely shy creature' was the squirrel,]" explained Ginny.

"[Sauveuret? No, Hémorroïde is ze unicorn. And I said fierce and shy, I zink,]" said Gabrielle.

"[Hémorroïde? Like piles on your bum? What sort of name is that for a unicorn?]" asked Hermione.

Not a polite name, frowned Gabrielle. She wished now that she had not given such a rude name; the mare would be very embarrassed if they laughed at her. Remembering, she held up her hand. "[Zen, eh, whose blood is zis?]"

"[Probably one of those German blokes,]" guessed George. He rolled onto his side to face her. German? That could be either Stanislaw or Festeller, thought Gabrielle.

"[Did he, eh, say 'oui' very much?]" Gabrielle tried to sound curious instead of hopeful.

"[We couldn't really hear all that well,]" replied Harry from where he was laying on the extra mattresses. He sounded depressed to Gabrielle, which meant that she had been right about him and Ginny. "[One of them was calling for a Mesulina.]"

"[Eh, do you mean Melusina?]" Harry shrugged, but Gabrielle had already concluded that he did. "[Oh mon Dieu! It is Herr Schnit-somezing! I told him to watch out for ze unicorns.]"

No one else seemed to share the same sense of dread and potential disaster as she did, which Gabrielle found strange, but not as strange as the overwhelming lethargy from her guests. Something had happened; something more than Ginny and Harry quarreling. Then Gabrielle remembered. "[What did Fred say?]"

v - v - v - v - v

Lord Voldemort gazed out over the darkened land below. The hills fell away to farmland, which then gave way to an empty flood plain. He preferred heights, and had drawn from the rocks and ground a tower befitting a wizard. Severus, as was his nature, skulked in a tent nearby, and below. The edifice was an extravagant use of power, but the magic here in the isolation just north-east of Albania was plentiful, and his recuperation was swift.

The Dark Lord's hand strayed to his wand as his thoughts turned angry. At least, the wand he currently used. His wand, the Wand, was at Hogwarts; he was sure of it now. He shook himself though. The isolation also meant there was no target for his irritation. The so-called Waverly fields creating the two smaller sanctuaries had been collapsed, vanishing hundreds of wizards and witches into the nothingness, but many times that number had escaped when his servants had failed to completely collapse the largest. Dolohov could stay in his little cabinets at Azkaban until he rotted, but Rowle must - feel - Lord Voldemort's displeasure. The Death Eater would not be able to hide in France for long, because he was an idiot. The Dark Lord's spies in the Ministry would inform him when the fool was returned to Britain.

The Ministry - Thicknesse was surely finished now and, as the one putatively behind his elevation, so was the Chairman. The loss of the persona, considered the Dark Lord, was only a setback if the Ministry was the prize. His aim now was the extermination of the parasites feeding off the magic, his magic, Lord Voldemort's very essence. The vermin had eluded his trap, however, and there could be no second attempt.

Lord Voldemort, an immortal soul in a taken body, turned to face the breeze. He could practically taste the magic in the air. To the south of the tower was a lake, the middle of which was the border. On its shore, now lit by artificial light as dusk gave way to night, was a stiffly formal building that, one imagined, was expected to show the Worker's pride in constructing it. Tedious muggle architecture had been everywhere when he had last travelled here, decades ago. The Dark Lord recalled his investigation of the immortality of vampires. He had been truly surprised at how vulnerable the creatures actually were, assuming one was at least slightly adept at Occlumency. The path had proved a false one, but a foolish old wizard there, who dared think himself an expert of vampires, although having carefully avoided any, had a grimoire in which was found the way to the right path. The wizard had been reluctant to part with the tome. The spot where he fell marked where the Cup had been hidden, which the wretch Wormtail had retrieved.

Was supposed to have retrieved - it was not, the Dark Lord thought irritably, yet within his grasp. The Horcrux, encumbered with protective magic as it was, would be detectable by any competent Ministry. That probably, the Dark Lord smirked cynically, meant it was perfectly safe. Not that the various ministries would be looking for such. The effort would be for the duties collected on imported magical items. The secret hidden within the relic would, Lord Voldemort felt certain, remain so, but the item itself would not be in his control. Wormtail was nothing more than a marionette, the Hand of Lord Voldemort, but the strings of the marionette had been lost when his own body had failed. Perhaps a new Mark for Wormtail would reconnect the rat to his master's will. Or perhaps a relatively quick death would be a suitable reward for the Gryffindor traitor's service.

The lights of the distant towns were now noticeable. They seemed brighter and more colorful than the Dark Lord remembered. Then, the region had been suffering through the socialist revolutions that had followed Grindelwald's war. The regimes sucked at the souls and will of the inhabitants nearly as well as dementors. The number of wizards and witches in these areas had continued to dwindle. The war, the Dark Lord knew, had not greatly affected the populace of Great Britain, so the history of it and of the wizard behind the conflict were glossed over. Only two or three lectures covered the decade long rise and fall of the wizard who now literally rotted in Nurmengard. Only curiosity-driven study gave a fuller picture, and only touring the countryside and speaking to survivors revealed what the Dark Lord now realized was the true lesson of the war. Like many hard-won bits of knowledge, it was deceptively simple: it was difficult for one wizard to kill another. While he, Lord Voldemort, had killed dozens, and his plots had now killed hundreds, it was decidedly slow-going. That was not a concern when all he had sought was obedience, but to accomplish oblivion a certain level of... efficiency... was needed. Muggles, the war had shown, could be extremely efficient in slaughter. What should be keeping Ministers of Magic awake at night the world over was that the muggle armies' capacity for carnage was not limited only to their fellow lesser beings. Entire magical villages, enclaves, and reserves had been lost to the muggle penchant for flying metal shards.

Not, of course, due to conscious effort by the muggles. Guiding their armies with an unseen hand was the power Grindelwald had wielded. After that, it was simply a matter of numbers and time. Perhaps, thought the Dark Lord, another smirk playing across his youthful face, that was why the history of magic had become the history of ancient magic. History, it is said, is written by the victors. A study of the current state of international politics, the muggle variety, was needed. For moment, however, it was time to catch a rat.

v - v - v - v - v

This, thought Gabrielle, was more like it. Fred's message had brought word of the catastrophe, with hundreds having been lost. Which, obviously, was not the good part. The repetition of the terrible news brought a mournful lull, during which Gabrielle excused herself to the de-Abraxanation chamber to get cleaned up. She knew that she, and her clothes, smelled of Soleil. Stank, if one was not inured to it. Gabrielle selected the skirt and stretchy green top that she had wanted, but quietly. Now did not seem like the time to rub Ginny's nose in it. When she changed, she hiked the skirt up a few centimeters - all she could manage without some rope to hold it in place.

Presently, Gabrielle was back in her bedroom, looking, to her eye, decidedly more mature. She lay on the bed with George. Not exactly next to him, not yet, but she was slowly shifting toward him. He should have someone to comfort him too! Eventually she would have to move the jealous Pepi-Z out of the way. Her owl, Lieutenant Mimsey Plumes, was also on the bed, at the foot of it. He was looking quite squashed, and that was probably his own fault. Gabrielle had found the unicorn quietly munching the hay while leaning her rear flank against the wall of the tent. At first, Gabrielle had worried that the mare's leg had gotten worse, but then she noticed the mottled brown wing poking up from between unicorn and wall. She did not bother scolding either of the animals, scooping up both the flattened bird and the scattered unicorn hair. Gabrielle would figure out a way to re-inflate the Lieutenant later; reattaching the tail hairs just meant tying a lot of knots.

Oddly, or disappointingly, depending on how Gabrielle thought of it, the display of shapely, well, at least toned, legs appeared to have little effect on George. She knew how boys pretended not to stare at parts of Monique; George was not doing that. She was definitely not just knees and elbows anymore, and there was not a red ear tip on him in the least. Had it all been the pink goose eggs of Mrs. Udderly's Magical Mammaries? It was not fair! Gabrielle could feel the perfect life she had dreamed of slipping away.

Yet, George did talk to her. With her. First about the calamity, as Gabrielle tried to understand why they were so afraid of muggles. Her own family mixed with muggles all the time. It could hardly be avoided if one wanted some decent shopping. Or coffee. George explained that individual muggles were all right, if a bit dim, but their governments could call up huge, organized lots of them and, in a pinch, burn mile-wide craters half a mile deep into the ground. He had not laughed when he said that, so Gabrielle believed it, but questioned if she really could. That did not seem like the kind of thing muggles did, except in movies Philippe liked. Everything exploded in those.

Since George's replies were getting shorter and shorter with each of her questions about the sanctuaries, Gabrielle moved on and told him about how she was learning curse-breaking. It was a grandiose introduction to a topic which quickly narrowed down to the events in the fallen tower. She thought she told the story well, with drama and suspense, and speculated how many other people would find a vampire attack and the horrible treatment afterwards amusing. Obviously, guessed a second thought, at least one in his twin. Gabrielle did not want to put on airs though, so she admitted to the trick with the nullified iron. She hoped that made her look clever rather than hopelessly pathetic.

George laughed quietly at that too, then paused with furrowed brow. "[You mean those things you had on earlier?]"

"[Oui. I were zem when I see Soleil,]" explained Gabrielle, just in case he thought that was her idea of fashion, although she was beginning to doubt he would even notice such things.

"[Oil them everyday, do you?]"

"[Eh, what? No. Zey, eh, do not need oil,]" replied Gabrielle. At least, no one had ever told her that the iron overshoes did. They could not blame her if no one had said!

"[I doubt it's proper nullified iron then. That stuff rusts if you even look at it. Never buy more than a three day supply unless you've got a barrel of cetacean oil for the rest. Or a whacking great need for red-brown dust,]" advised George.

"[Oh, eh, okay,]" said Gabrielle. She wondered if she should take notes. Did he not see how her skirt had slid upwards just a little more as she had shifted to get 'comfortable'? The hemline was past Maman's limit and nearing Fleur's; Papa's idea of modesty was exceeded even if she wore the skirt properly, because he was silly. It took a lot of effort to be so subtle.

"[Who is Soleil?]" asked Ginny. An innocent question that came with a look of disapproval aimed at the creeping fashion. "[Another student? This is a mixed dorm, right?]"

Gabrielle rolled her eyes at such a weak attempt. George knew who, and what, Soleil is because, well, he does write, and she had written to him about the colt. "[Zat is being silly, Ginny. Soleil, he is ze Abraxan, one of ze very famous flying horses of Beauxbatons.]"

"[I know what an Abraxan is,]" muttered Ginny. It suddenly occurred to Gabrielle that if Ginny did not know who Soleil was, then George kept her letters private.

"[They brought one of those? Here? You can see muggle buildings from here!]" exclaimed Hermione.

"[Zat is not a problem. I use ze diadem when I ride him.]" Gabrielle could see that if she were going to have an adult, private, and uninterrupted conversation with George, with possible snuggling, and also a real kiss at the end of the night, then she would have to get the others, especially Ginny, out of her room. A demure second thought considered if she should not have George leave as well - Papa would explode if he knew. Gabrielle ignored this, deciding that what they did was more important than where they did it. A memory of the woodcut images from her Grandmere's book played through Gabrielle's mind; perhaps staying in her room, on the bed, was not the best idea. She could feel herself starting to blush.

"[You can ride an Abraxan? I thought they hated wizards,]" said Ginny.

Gabrielle, who was not interested in talking about Soleil with Ginny, answered, "[Zey do not like, eh, many zings, but it is not hard if zey know you.]"

"[And that's the trick, luv, isn't it? Hagrid gets on with most creatures, but even he took a kick to the eggs that had him talking like Flitwick for a week!]" recounted George, getting laughs and groans from the others. Gabrielle smiled, but did not join in. She was losing the moment.

"[What was that about a diadem?]" asked Hermione.

Gabrielle sighed quietly. George had scooted himself up so that he now sat against the headboard of the bed. Why, she thought with regret, would anyone care? "[Ze diadem, it makes you and ze animal invisible. When you, eh, ride. It is ze Diadem, of, of, eh...]" Gabrielle could not quite remember. The sudden realization, since George had rearranged himself, of where she would, to others, judgemental others, appear to be staring had flustered her. Also, it was not like that piece of trivia was going to be on an exam. Gabrielle moved to copy George's position.

"[You don't know?]" prompted Ginny.

"[I forget,]" replied Gabrielle offhandedly. Sitting was not nearly as intimate, or potentially intimate, but when she had shifted it had been closer to George. Pepi-Z's feeble protests were short-lived; Gabrielle dropped him to the floor. She was now, with only a slight lean, in physical contact with him. Victory!

All right, Gabrielle chided herself, that was a little ridiculous. She continued, "[You can ask Professor Festeller. He, eh, likes zese old zings.]"

"[Think he might know about the things from the Hogwarts founders?]" asked Harry.

"[What's a diadem anyway?]" This was from Ron.

"[It's a decorative band that goes around your head,]" explained Hermione.

"[Oh, you mean like a crown, sort of thing?]"

"[No. Crowns go on your head, like a hat.]"

"[Fleur wore one at the wedding, right?]"

"[No, Harry. That was a tiara, which one wears in one's hair. A diadem goes across your forehead.]"

"[So, like one of them tiara things but too big and slips down?]" suggested Ron.

"[Er, well, yes, I suppose you could think of it like that,]" agreed Hermione reluctantly.

"[Why do we care?]" asked Ginny.

It was a good question, thought Gabrielle. She certainly did not care to discuss a comparative study of decorative headgear through the ages. Although, that did remind her that if she did not bring Hemorrhoid back to the forest then it would be very crowded in her room tonight. "[I will show you it, zen I will ride Hemor-, eh, Hemma back to the forest.]"

"[You can ride the unicorn too?]" asked Hermione. Was it surprise or doubt? Gabrielle could not tell.

"[Of course,]" replied Gabrielle as if it were only natural. She glanced at George, but could not tell from his face if he was proud of her. Or even listening - he had the metal bug out again.

"[You're going to ride starkers through the camp?]" blurted Ginny.

"[Eh, what? No. Zat is only ze myzz anyway. You should know zis. Also, eh, Hemma is a filly, so it is easy, I zink,]" explained Gabrielle. "[Wizz ze diadem no one will see her.]"

"[Can I try riding her, just a little? I rode a thestral once,]" pleaded Ginny. Gabrielle thought about that and smiled, sensing possible leverage in getting the redhead to butt out. "[What are you cackling about?]"

"[I do not cackle!]"

v - v - v - v - v

"[But why's it got a half-eaten, dead bird stuck to it?]"

"[I have already explained zis! Ze diadem makes everyzing below it, eh, invisible when you are riding. Zat means ze top of your head can be seen.]"

"[Yeah, right, that quaffle is through the hoop. Pretty daft of that Gross Bull witch. But the half-eaten bird?]"

"[Zat covers you head, so no one sees.]"

"[It's Grosboule, Ginny,]" corrected Hermione.

"[But the half-]"

"[It was not eaten before!]" snapped Gabrielle. Hemorrhoid tossed her head at the outburst, picking Gabrielle up into the air as she clung to the horn.

"[Oh, oh! I think you're startling her,]" warned Hermione, stepping back quickly. She was whispering; why was a mystery to Gabrielle.

"[I don't zink she is afraid of me,] said Gabrielle. "[And she was making a lot of noise before too.]" Gabrielle gently tugged at the unicorn's chin hair anyway. Unicorns liked that. When the creature's head dipped again, Gabrielle asked, "Your leg is better, no? It does not hurt?" The was no apparent reply, but Gabrielle could see Hemorrhoid shift her weight back and forth, so she assumed that meant that the salve had worked. "Good! Then we can go back to the forest."

"[Will she let me ride?]" asked Ginny anxiously. She was bouncing a little on the balls of her feet. Gabrielle noted it, and stored it away for future use. Who was a child?

"[I have not asked zis yet,]" said Gabrielle. She resisted the urge to be Fleur.

"[How do you know what she is saying?]" whispered Hermione.

Gabrielle shrugged her shoulders. As far as she was concerned, the unicorn did not say anything. Hemorrhoid would either agree, or someone might end up gored. "[Zey, eh, do not speak. But, eh, we will know if she does not want to.]" Gabrielle added the last in case Hermione would then think it stupid to talk to the unicorn at all. Said unicorn was now beginning to irritate Gabrielle. Hemorrhoid had apparently decided that Gabrielle's hair needed chewing. As the side closest to the animal had very little, nearly a meter of sharp, dangerous horn swung up and around. Hermione retreated behind Ginny, who did not seem to recognise the potential disaster, as Gabrielle struggled to stay clear of it.

With the direction of the spiral rapier, and who was in front of it, decided, Hemorrhoid nibbled gently. If it were not for the occasional tugs, Gabrielle would have hardly noticed. At least, in comparison to Soleil. She did notice though, because when the spell she had used on her hair wore off both sides would now be a complete mess. "Will you let them ride?" murmured Gabrielle. "Just, eh, around the tent?" Definitely not outside, just in case it was possible to be One with an ordinary muggle forest also.

The mare turned a dark eye to Gabrielle, seemingly considering the idea while quietly crunching - Crunching? Gabrielle's hand flew to her hair. Several of the transfigured beads were missing, though it was more correct to say that they were now somewhere else. Somewhere that they should not be. "Non, non! You can not eat those!" warned Gabrielle. "They are made from soap." She pried at the rubbery lips and put her hand into the mare's mouth. If you do not watch every second, thought Gabrielle irritably. She felt around for the pieces, and Hemorrhoid's head reared a little at the intrusion. Gabrielle's fingers closed on a piece of bead just as she was grabbed around her middle and suddenly yanked backwards. Since she had a very firm grip on the mare's horn - the metric ton - she did not go far, but her feet dangled in the air as she was suspended between opposing forces.

"What are you doing?" shouted Gabrielle. Hermione was pulling hard against Gabrielle's grip.

"What are - you - doing?" repeated Hermione. "[You'll lose that hand!]"

"[Eh, what?]" That, thought Gabrielle, was a very odd thing to say. She had to know that unicorns were herbivores. "[Let go!]" Hemorrhoid, more annoyed than startled, twisted away from the bushy-haired witch and kicked out with a rear hoof.

Fortunately, the two witches both had a tenacious, or desperate, hold on what was in their grasp. Gabrielle's arm was stretched painfully as Hermione was pulled off her feet and dragged after her. The kick missed its target, and the mare trotted a short distance away with neither of the girls in tow as the horn slipped free.

"Herm-my-onee!" whined Ginny. "Now look what you've done."

"Was I supposed to just let her get hurt?" Gabrielle, who was currently under the older girl, wondered if she should point out the obvious. How were skinned knees in anyway mature?

v - v - v - v - v

That, vowed Gabrielle, was enough of unicorns. She was picking her way back carefully across the moonlit fields after returning Hemorrhoid back to the forest. She no longer felt bad about choosing that name, and she hoped to Merlin that she would be able to find her other shoe. Her attempts to summon it had not succeeded, and the bark and tree leaves she had transfigured had crumbled.

Farm fields, Gabrielle tried to remember, were not supposed to be full of rocks, were they? She did not recall, and if they were not then no one had told this farmer. Certainly she had stepped on a lot of sharp ones. Gabrielle could not be certain where the missing shoe was because she had not been wearing her shoes, not anything else save the diadem, when she had set out. It was all, she decided, Ginny's fault. Gabrielle had told the youngest Weasley repeatedly that there was no actual requirement for nudity, but Ginny did not listen anymore than Monique had. And if Ginny had a List of embarrassing moments, then the ridiculous squeaking and squealing she had done as Hemorrhoid moved with some sort of jarring half-prance, half-walk would be on it. After panting out a demand for more time, the red-haired witch then nearly collapsed onto the floor from the mare's back. Ginny had completely lost her senses.

Hermione was no better. After shying away from the creature before, she was shedding her clothes and climbing onto the chair almost before Ginny finished sliding off. Gabrielle had expected more... sanity. After all, Hermione knew almost everything and could do all kinds of magic. She did not know that this was not necessary? It made no sense to Gabrielle, but then she remembered that Hermione talked to her cat and was dating Ron. Ginny, from the floor, claimed that magic was stronger when one was 'starkers', but Gabrielle did not see what that had to do with riding.

All of their stupid behavior meant that, when it was time to leave, Hemorrhoid was not going to let Gabrielle ride with any of her clothes on. The mare made that clear, pointedly, as it were, clear. The diadem of course, with a petrified Lieutenant Mimsey affixed to it in place of his impromptu dinner, kept Gabrielle invisible, but invisible was not silent. That was something Philippe would say, and it was true. Every time someone's head turned toward the thud of hooves, Gabrielle turned pink.

Powerful magic or not, Gabrielle had no intention of sneaking back into camp like she had left it. She took her clothes, neatly folded, the apron, and one, if not both, of her shoes. She also took a blanket to sit on as she rode because, after Ginny and Hermione, well, eww. The apron would keep her hidden from any muggles when she walked back, not that it was likely that she would meet one in the dark fields. It also hid her from the wizards and witches in the camp, so, since she had to find her shoe, Gabrielle just happened to take the long way around to the far side of the other tents, where the laughter and hooting usually came from. And where it was coming from now. There were six wizards and two witches sitting around a small fire. One of the witches was Abby. The other witch was turned away from Gabrielle, and involved in some serious kissing with one of the wizards. It looked to Gabrielle like Abby wanted to do the same as she was practically climbing on - was it Pietre? He was definitely not returning the attention with any enthusiasm, and seemed more interested in the raucous discussion of Bulgaria's national quidditch team. A gleam caught Gabrielle's eye, which came from a bottle being raised to another wizard's lips. She could not see it clearly, but the shape looked to be different than those in Soleil's supply. Perhaps the Poot Powder (EXP) had done the job after all.

The wayward shoe did not respond to Gabrielle's leaping Accio spells until she was nearly at her tent. The footwear hit her in the back of her head, because she did expect for it to come from that direction. She guessed that she had dropped it right off. Gabrielle was relieved to have retrieved it finally. She was wondering if she would need to resort to the wand with her Grandmere's hair at the core for the task, since it usually gave her a better range.

It was too late to bother putting her shoes on now, so Gabrielle padded into her tent through the open flap. The reason the flap was left open was obvious. A stiff magical breeze was airing out what was recently a part-time stable. What was also obvious was that George and the others had been busy cleaning and repairing furniture, floors, and walls as well, and they now sat in the common area. Ginny and Harry sat together holding hands, with Ginny leaning heavily against the Boy-Who-Lived. Hermione sat on Ron's lap with her arms around his neck because, Gabrielle suspected, subtlety would be lost on him. George looked lonely, thought Gabrielle, though he was doing his best to hide it by having a serious conversation. She moved closer, around behind where Harry and the insane Ginny sat; Harry Potter had a knack for spotting what should be invisible.

"[Had to be You-Know-Who, didn't it? Why else would they go all at once?]" reasoned Ron.

"[Well, the Waverly fields were all put up at the same time, so it's possible they all had the same fatal flaw,]" said Hermione. "[But I agree that - he - is most likely behind it.]"

"[Was there a Dark Mark put up over any of the sites?]" asked Harry.

"[No mention of it,]" replied George.

"[You-Know-Who's definitely behind it,]" asserted Ginny.

"[Voldemort,]" insisted Harry. Gabrielle wished he would give a warning when he was going to do that.

"[Yeah. Not his usual modes of operanding though. No muggles were killed, for starters,]" noted George.

"[The Death-Eaters have attacked wizard events before. Like the Quidditch World Cup.]"

"[Only to frighten folks into not fighting back. They didn't kill -]"

"[They did at the Tri-Wizard tournament.]" Gabrielle had been there, but Fleur had been attacked and injured, so she had only found that out later.

"[Yes, Harry. That's true. The murders before were people who happened to be in You-Know-]"

"[Moldy Old Voldy.]"

"[Yes, thank you, Ron. The wizards and witches he killed before were in his way, either intentionally or inadvertently. This was a bit, erm, indiscriminate,]" argued Hermione.

"[Hey, just a mo'. Didn't you, you know, feel anything?]" asked Ron, rubbing his forehead with a finger in a zigzag pattern. "[Did you see anything? Was Moldy happy or angry?]"

"[Angry. He was definitely - ]" said Ginny before quickly ducking her head into Harry's shoulder.

"[Not suspicious at all, is she? Subtlety matched only by a flatulent dragon,]" said George. Gabrielle almost laughed, which would have given her away.

"[My scar didn't hurt at all,]" said Harry, looking puzzled. "[I didn't feel anything.]"

"[It seems Ginny did,]" observed Hermione. "[How is it that you did?]"

"[It - it was, er, just a guess.]" Ginny's ears were practically glowing as they reddened.

"[And now you're lying.]"

"[Bugger off!]"

"[Hmmph. A secret protection done secretly using a secret? I think I know what you did, but - wherever - did you find it?]" asked Hermione. "[And, by the way, I don't find that phrase so shocking now.]" Gabrielle, who had made herself comfortable sitting against the wall, was not able to follow all of the conversation, but suspected that the secret of the secret protection was one of the rituals from Grandmere's book.

"[Ginny? What does she mean?]" prompted Harry. His tone bristled.

"[She means that Ron took the wand nature gave him and stuck it - ]"

"[Mum is going to be so disappointed in you lot.]" interrupted George.

"[Wait, so now Ginny has You-Know-Who in her head?]"

"[Don't be stupid Ron. I'm just, er... taking... some of it,]" admitted Ginny.

"[You're what? Ginny!]" exploded Harry.

"[Shut it Harry. It's done, all right? You always worried about your scar, about what would happen if V-Voldemort got close. Well, now you don't,]" said Ginny fiercely. Gabrielle thought that either Harry shrank in the force of her determination, or Ginny grew.

"[I... You - but, how?]"

"[Another eloquent discourse from that Potter fellow, eh? There's one to watch for the Minister of Magic stakes,]" teased George. He paused, then fished out the metal bug and consulted what was beneath the wing casings. "[Speak of the devil - Thicknesse has been sacked.]" George squinted at the faux insect, then looked up and in the direction of where Gabrielle sat. She froze - she knew that if she spoke or moved suddenly the apron's charm would break. Then she would have to explain her eavesdropping.

"[It's a little like what your Mum did for you,]" explained Ginny. "[Er, very little, actually. Almost completely different. I think I just feel what you would have felt from your scar.]"

"[You think? Can you undo it?]" asked Harry.

"[I dunno, but I wouldn't do that anyway.]"

"[Ginny, you can't -]"

"[I can and I did! I know you don't want me near any fighting - you and Ron don't really know how to whisper,]" said Ginny.

"[All you have to do to hear is to press an ear up to the wall,] added George with a grin. He drew out his wand.

"[Now I don't have to be right there to help you.]"

"[It'll be like Voldemort is in your head,]" warned Harry.

"[Riddle, Harry. Like Riddle is in my head. Think what you're saying, to me,]" challenged Ginny.

"[Oh. Erm, right,]" deflated Harry. "[I still don't like it.]"

"[So where's the Dark Turd now? What was he doing?]" asked Ron. George waggled his wand in big loopy patterns. Gabrielle watched eagerly. Something interesting was bound to happen.

"[I didn't get that much,]" shrugged Ginny. "[He was angry, that was about it. And a name, like Rolls or Rolly.]"

"[Rowle, perhaps?]" suggested Hermione distractedly. She was looking over her shoulder at something near the ceiling. Gabrielle followed her gaze, and stared at the large, pink, wobbly ball above her. The large, - falling - , pink, wobbly ball. "[He was one of the Death Eaters identified in the Hogwarts attack,]" finished Hermione.

"[What in Merlin's name - ]" began Harry.

There was a splash, and a squeal. Gabrielle had tried to roll sideways to escape, but had only been partially successful. She was soaked from her waist down, and lay in the spreading puddle. It was colder than she had expected, and Gabrielle desperately hoped it actually was only water. Everyone was looking now, and she knew that the apron's charm was broken. With a reflex handed down from generation to generation, Gabrielle smiled. It was the angelic smile of an innocent, mostly used when the opposite was true. "[Oh, eh, hello.]"

v - v - v - v - v

The sleeping arrangements took more time to work out than Gabrielle expected. There were seven suites, one for each year, and six people. But one of the rooms smelled, possibly permanently, of Abraxan. Another suite's furniture had been kicked to pieces by the bored, or annoyed, unicorn. The wreckage would, according to Hermione, need to sit in moonlight for three nights before spells would work to repair it. Gabrielle asked if that was true for Abraxans as well - it would explain the stuff Professor Elevagre had piled outside the stables. Hermione thought it possible but could not be sure. The repair delay left the number of beds one shy of the needed number. Hermione and Ginny immediately volunteered to share a room. Which room was what occupied them. Gabrielle had a flashback to Fleur carefully arranging tables of guests for the wedding. It seemed very important to the two girls to work out who would be next to whom, and, Gabrielle could not help but notice, how far from her George could be put!

A second thought, one that had been listening to what the older girls were almost saying, made Gabrielle reconsider. It seemed to be a matter of what arrangement would, eh, disturb George less. Which, now that Gabrielle was suspicious, she translated into what arrangement would be least likely to make George suspicious also. And that translated into what was less likely to get them caught. Logically, concluded Gabrielle, the girls were going to sneak into the boys' rooms. And so, decided Gabrielle, so would she. It was unfair to George that he had no one to comfort him after the tragic news - a thought that, even to her, sounded like a lame rationalization. Except that it was true, so it was good enough.

Which was why, at the moment, Gabrielle stood silently in the shadows cast by the candles watching Hermione steal across the common area. Gabrielle wore the apron again, and George's old quidditch shirt. That had not been her original plan, which had been to copy Ginny's boldness at the Burrow and sneak into George's room wearing - only - the apron. Two things had stopped her. One was her inability to open her door quietly with her hands shaking so much. The second was her ill-timed boast that she 'did not need a cloak to become invisible' as a way to explain her sudden, drenched appearance. Only Harry seemed to take any note of it, but if Hermione or Ginny decided to use their wands to watch for her, well, Gabrielle did not want to be caught so... exposed. So while she was, in fact, completely nude, it was only under the over-sized quidditch shirt.

Hermione slipped into the room Ron slept in, the momentarily open door making his snoring louder before it was abruptly and completely silenced. Ginny had passed by earlier, the greater distance to their destinations was meant to blind George's supposedly watchful eye. Which, given what they had nearly admitted to getting up to already behind his back, was probably wasted effort.

Mulling her sister witches' strategies was, though, nothing more than a way for Gabrielle to delay having to make her own brief trip. She was still determined; she was not a child. It was just... hard.

But not impossible. The first few steps were somewhat tottering as Gabrielle regained command of her frozen legs, but after those her passage was more of a scurry, as if Maman were about to catch up to her. It was best, advised a second thought, not to think of Maman. It was all right to think of breathing though, which Gabrielle found she had not been doing. Her heart was pounding as well. Her insides were not right either, and Gabrielle once more scurried, this time back to her suite to use the bathroom. Again.

Having made the trip once made the second easier. Gabrielle strode confidently across the common area, at least until the sabre-horned deer head on the wall rattled its antlers, startling her. She sprinted the rest of the way to George's door.

The door loomed. There was no other way for Gabrielle to see it. The plain wooden portal guarded the boundary between the silly and the serious, paradise and perdition, dreams and reality. Stepping through the door could mean entering the strong, welcoming embrace of true love, or it could mean complete humiliation for being utterly stupid. Gabrielle was certain that George loved her and that they were destined for each other. Very sure, at the least. Nearly sure. No, she stopped herself; there had been the kiss at Fleur's wedding. That had to mean something. What, wondered Gabrielle, would Fleur do?

Fleur, Gabrielle knew, would be behind a thrice-warded door of her own as boys tried to sneak into her room. Which was not any help here, other than to remind Gabrielle that she too had some Veela heritage. And if George was at least a century old, then she would be sure it mattered. But the brief boost was enough to get her through the door.

Thankfully there were no wards or spells, possibilities Gabrielle had only thought about - after - opening the door. What if she had ended up dangling upside down by her ankle again? Dressed, or not, as she was? It was good that Fred was not here.

George's suite was dark, so Gabrielle conjured a small blue flame, which danced lightly on the tip of her wand. She knew how to cast a light spell - who did not? She just preferred the happy little fire more. It was like a little friend.

George was, perhaps unsurprisingly,asleep. Which was good, since Gabrielle suddenly realized that she could not be even slightly invisible holding the conjured fire. Although, noted a second thought, that made absolutely no sense. If the intent was provide comfort, then how was she to do that if George was unaware of her presence? Gabrielle canceled the flame, and considered the question in the gloom for minute or two before coming to a decision. A cheering charm was out of the question, ever since that time with Dilly, but Gabrielle could simply radiate concern and good will, a bright beacon to guide George's spirit. Her second thoughts were too disgusted to comment.

An awkward minute and a half later, Gabrielle decided that although this method was bound to work, she really did not know how close George needed to be. What if, having never tried to do this before, her range was less than a meter? What if, on a first attempt, it was only centimeters? George lay on the far side of the bed, on his side, facing away. That put him more than an arm's length away, easily outside the effect. It also, noted Gabrielle, left, coincidentally, a narrow space next to him on the bed, on his bed. Which, she could see, would let her get close enough so that she could be a beacon.

Gabrielle pulled off the apron, and took a few deep breaths to calm her racing heart. She fingered the hem of the shirt for a moment, but suspected that she would die of a heart attack if she took it off. Gabrielle slipped forward unsteadily and sat gently, quietly on the edge of the bed. The sound of George's breathing did not change at all. Gabrielle wondered at that, given the way her heart was hammering in her ears. She recalled her friend Philippe talking about antennas once. The muggle kind, of course, not the regular ones found on insects. She had not bothered to follow most of it, but she did remember something about the way the metal rods were pointed being important. Philippe had a trick when touching the back of the box of the télé. If he held his arm one way, the picture that it showed was clear. If he held is arm another way, there was hardly a picture at all. What it meant, in the current situation, logically, was that she ought to lay down. Gabrielle slowly, carefully slid herself under the sheets. That, also logically, would provide an unobstructed ether for her radiating.

In the back of her mind, second thoughts reeled at the idea of actually sleeping with a boy. Of course, Gabrielle was not at all asleep, and sleeping with someone was a euphemism for something else entirely, but, more or less, she was sleeping with George. It felt...

It felt like it would normally feel if she were perched on the very edge of her own bed trying not to move or make a sound. So far, Gabrielle found the whole experience somewhat disappointing. The only evidence for George being in the room was the rhythmic breathing, and the only change since getting into the bed was that she had developed a sniffle. Gabrielle decided that what was needed was a more palpable sense of George's presence. She shifted her hips backwards slowly, then her shoulders and legs, like a very slow-moving, sand-crawling snake that happened to be going in reverse.

Contact came at last, along with the nearly heart-stopping moment when the soothing sound of George's exhalations changed abruptly. Gabrielle barely breathed before they resumed again. Things were different now. For one, it was much warmer, either because of George's body heat or because of near terminal nervousness. Gabrielle carefully squirmed to increase the area of contact. That would be important for the plan, reasoned Gabrielle. It was like touching the télé box. Very romantic, teased a second thought.

George, who, up until this time, had been very cooperative, suddenly said, "Mwum 'uv." Then he turned as suddenly, rolling over and jostling Gabrielle. She froze at first in panic, then tried to slide away off the bed. It was too late, though. George's arm flopped over her, trapping her next to his chest. Her sniffle became a runny nose, except that the mineral taste at the back of throat meant that she had a nosebleed. Even worse, her arms were now pinned, unless she wanted to risk waking George. She did not have a handkerchief anyway. And his hand - Gabrielle tried not to think of what his hand, clasped to her chest, just happened to be touching. Mostly because it would make her head explode, and her nose worse.

All in all, came a second thought, success!


	22. In Repose

Chapter Twenty-two - In Repose

The flat was, to the passerby, something that should have been razed ages ago in the name of progress. Or beautification. Or even habitability. The run-down hovel sat forgotten down a street that was more of the alley it pretended not to be. The building lacked a few modern amenities, such as electric service, telephone service, and even running water. The second-floor flat did not need a new ceiling as much as - a - ceiling, with a roof to match. The whole of the upper floor was more of a pigeon loft now, although calling it a pigeon graveyard was more appropriate.

That was because the only birds living there, or living for any length of time, were the owls. One belonged to the current tenant of the lower flat - two, if her idiotic roommate did not return soon. It had been six months now. The rest of the handful of owls were - her - tenants. She was a witch, born Aiglentina Percéelle, but currently favoring the name Elvira. Just Elvira, with the second syllable drawn out for an extra beat.

Not that the few sickles a month per owl were needed as much, even if she was paying the entire rent herself. It helped that the landlord was a muggle gentleman, who could be "persuaded" to take any kind of small pieces of paper at all when things were tight. But mostly, it was due to the flat rectangle of a package sitting on the table. The shape was ominous; it was the size Elvira had learned was called A. Human nature being what is was, that implied that this was the smallest. She couldn't imagine the terror a Z would bring.

The colored ink was somewhat washed-out and did no justice to the logo. The W's, for instance, just sat there, which meant it was from Toulier. Elvira noted the extra thickness and winced. Had it been three months already?

Elvira's specialty as a witch was carving and enchanting ward stones. Her best works were lifelike lambs, in repose. She could also do a nice rabbit, in repose. The market was thin. Lately she had been picking up a few galleons here and there doing piecework for the Weasleys, mostly encapsulating, shrinking, and layering the foulest odors for the vile Poot Powder. While the product was completely unfunny in itself, she found a certain humor in the knowledge that the popular prank was little more than the concentrated stench from the muggle sewer system running under the pavement outside.

Elvira drew her wand and sliced away the perimeter of the package with four sure strokes. It was a sureness that came from years of carving stone lambs, in repose, with the wand. She lifted a corner of the top and grimaced. The vast sea of numbers, imprisoned in their ranks and files was there, and, argh, the little circles with the horrible colored wedges. She would need to brew a batch of Pepper-up before she went any further. Last time, the ten point 'mission statement' of the Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes Way had taken nearly two batches to get through. How many points would fit on a Z? It was a question that made her shudder.

The cauldron sat on an open fire in the tiny kitchen. The smoke wafted through the fat metal pipe of the make-shift chimney, exiting the flat above via the gaping holes. While the cauldron heated, Elvira returned to stuffing her roommate's things into a Wheeze box, and wondered if it would be all right to sell some of them. The self-correcting abacus, the Ministry accountant's pride and joy - well, pride, at least, had to be worth something, and the wayward witch - was - responsible for half the rent. What, wondered Elvira with a sniff, had become of the plan to try and marry some Ministry clerk? To go haring off like that after some dragon -

The walls of the tired building shook slightly, and fog of dust drifted down from the ceiling. That sometimes happened as the roof continued its slow collapse. Elvira knew she needed to either learn how to reinforce it magically, or come up with an explanation for the landlord that did not involve an over-priced lump of marble, a hidden fault, and an artist tantrum. It was not usual, though, when it came to the settling roof beams, for someone to be shouting in English. Elvira took her wand and climbed the rear stairs to what was left of the second floor to get a better view. The owls had fled, but she was not concerned. Her own flock of lambs, in repose, would protect her home.

The man rudely shouting was a disturbingly large Englishman, with blond hair. A wizard too - the idiot was firing spells at her door right there, waving his wand around in the middle of the street. "You complete fool! Put it away before the neighbors see!" shouted Elvira from the window.

"[Yeah. Look, I'm in a bit of a hurry. Is your name Yvette?]" asked the stranger. He did not put the wand away, but raised it toward her.

"Are you another bill collector?" The flat was not all that her roommate had run out on.

"[Do you speak English? Is you name Yvette?]"

"I do speak some, but I will not bother for you. Go away. Yvette does not live here anymore." At least, not without coming across with six months of back rent.

"[So, you are Yvette?]"

Not a boyfriend, obviously, thought Elvira, and probably not a bill collector, unless he and his client were complete incompetents. Not from the Ministry either, at least not this country's. "You must have troll blood in your family. Goat too, if you face is anything to go by. She does not live here. Go make an idiotic spectacle of yourself somewhere else."

The wizard below fired a spell at her, which gouged a hole in the brickwork around the window. "[That's yer one warning, luv. Where is Yvette?]"

Where is Yvette? Elvira did not have an answer for that. The mousy blond had gone off to England with her latest matrimonial target, another self-important Ministry drone, for the Delacour wedding, then came back days late obsessing about dragons, smelling of sulfur, and walking funny. She had moped for dreary months and had begun taking unauthorized absences from her post because it was 'boring'. But, wondered Elvira, what did she expect? She was, or had been, an accountant toting up the balances in the specialty herb trade. Finally, six months ago now, Yvette had showed up at the flat more than slightly soused and wearing a new set of fireproof leather robes. She had collected the gray blanket she had returned from the wedding with, slurred that she was going to Romania, and then disappeared entirely.

One, at the moment at least, handy benefit to being able to carve beautiful, peaceful lambs, in repose, from stone was the unusable lumps created when she tried to do anything else. Aside, that is, from the odd rabbit. In repose. The lopsided faithful dog, in repose; the regal lion-ish, tiger-ish feline, in repose; and the frightening baby goat, in repose; sailed out of the window with a sweep of her wand. One would think that if one could carve a lovely lamb then a baby goat wold not be a problem, but the horns were just wrong - terrifyingly wrong. These were followed by the eagle, in repose, which looked more like a pointy duck, and Elvira's last attempt at expanding her oeuvre: a lamb, rampant. Lambs were just not a rampant sort of animal.

Elvira could hear the crack and clatter as the rejected works were burst in air, showering the streets, buildings, and cars with far more numerous shrapnel. It was a poor tactic, as the shattering glass and car alarms would draw even more attention, and eventually aurors. A loud grunt followed by a string of curses, in English, revealed another hazard of exploding rock - one can not dodge everything.

v - v - v - v - v

Severus Snape, black robes billowing as he flew, trailed behind the far slighter form ahead, and wondered why. What was his role here? He certainly was not the Dark Lord's spy, nor his de facto healer. Snape still posed as the adult to his putative ward in some ill-defined relationship, but that was hardly necessary. The anonymity of the current body, and the Dark Lord's obvious affinity for it, allowed him to project his will with ease. He could have the muggles believe that he was their king as easily as a devil-may-care youth with a sweet tooth.

Dawn approached, and also their apparent destination. A cursory glance showed it to be an old stone fortress, the dry stone walls standing but the roofs caved or missing. A more informed look revealed that the tall main tower still stood. The anti-muggle wards, thought Snape, must still stand for a reason, and he expected that the tower would be either guarded or at least occupied. The next question that came to mind was whether this was a social call on an expected ally, or an entry by force.

The answer came as the two wizards soared high above the conical roof of the tower. The Dark Lord suddenly dove for the roof, then conjured a large boulder in front of him. The flying spell was quickly recast, and he matched the falling rock's trajectory at a prudent distance, even as it smashed its way through the top of the tower. Snape followed, but slowed considerably at the splintered hole, where the shattered beams waited to spear the foolhardy.

Flying and hovering are, from an aeronautical viewpoint, two distinct actions. Coming to a stop while using a flying spell does not mean that one is suddenly using a hovering spell. It means that one is falling, at least until flying is resumed or levitation is used. Snape, out of his element in the open air, dropped through the hole in the tower's roof. He recast the flying spell in time to avoid serious injury. The potions master was aided in this by the gray-haired man directly below the hole, whose collapse into an unconscious cushion provided a few crucial seconds more. The Dark Lord laughed.

"Really, Severus, you might have let him finish making his useless threats," admonished the Dark Lord.

Snape landed unsteadily, sliding ungracefully. He straightened and swept his dark hair back. The Dark Lord had laughed - an actual laugh in jest instead of a cruel laugh for when his victim finally realized his fate. It was more of a shock than the method of entry had been. This odd change in tone had to be caused by the stolen body. The brief slip had brought back memories to Snape of the Dark Lord's early years, when wit and charm matched encyclopedic knowledge and extraordinary will, when cruelty and disregard were the rarer traits. The Dark Lord's followers had grown swiftly in number then, before being winnowed as a spear is sharpened. Snape turned and regarded the fallen man. "My apologies, my lord. I misjudged the angle. I will bring him around if you wish. I have a potion that -"

"No need, Snape. He will be a serviceable plug for the Floo. Notice the wand?"

Snape looked around the man, and was about to magically hoist the sprawled form when he spotted a thin, shiny rod near a chair. "Is that... metal?" asked Snape, surprised once more.

"It's a goblin wand - exceedingly rare. Most likely an heirloom, perhaps having been claimed on a battlefield. It's what the goblin rebellions were all about. Our host is rather tall for goblin blood though; I wonder why he was using it?" considered the Dark Lord. Then, dismissing the question and the man, turned his own wand on the ruined roof and ceiling. With a sweep of an arm, the debris on the floor rebuilt itself, leaving the tower whole. "See to the Floo, Snape."

v - v - v - v - v

Gabrielle shook herself awake, again. She was sure she had dozed; it was hard to stay awake when it was so late, when she was wrapped in George's warm, if unknowing, embrace. His scent filled her senses. She was tempting fate and she knew it, though. It was time to get back -

The frantic thought shouting disaster inside Gabrielle's head was finally noticed. The room was filled with a gray light; dawn, doom, and the morning were fast approaching. It was well past time to leave!

At least leaving would be simple, thought Gabrielle, as she slid slowly out of George's bed. He had shifted again in the night, and did not have his arm over her any more. She tried not to shake the bed at all, and did not wake George, mostly because, as she could see as she stood up, he was not there. Gabrielle stared at the empty bed, mouth open, as her brain struggled with what this meant, and if there was any plausible scenarios where this was not a complete disaster. The only solace she could find was that George had not kicked her out of his bed when he had discovered her.

And Gabrielle knew that George had woken and discovered her, because, she thought, why else would he not be here? Of course, the natural question after that was where he had gone? A hopeful thought wondered if perhaps he was fetching Harry's invisibility cloak, so the others would not find out. That would save her, and George was good at saving her. It was very sweet. He would not realize that she could use the apron. A more mundane thought suggested that she check the bathroom.

It was a mundane thought, but other thoughts quickly decorated it with anxiety. If George was in the bathroom, reasoned Gabrielle, logically, then he not only had not kicked her out but he intended to continue having her in his bed. That then meant the snuggling would go from inadvertent to intentional. Would - would a kiss or two be enough? Or would he expect more? Images of the woodcut illustrations from Grandmere's little book rose in her head like newt eyes in a potion. Her mouth went dry. Oh mon Dieu, worried Gabrielle, of course he would expect more! Especially from someone who had climbed into his bed. I - I am being loose, came a horrified thought.

No, resolved Gabrielle to herself, I am being stupid. This was just another step in her and George's relationship. A rather big step, she had to admit, but was that not the reason she was not wearing what she was not, eh, wearing? Gabrielle knew that it could hurt the first time, but she doubted it would be worse than two arms worth of Skele-Gro. She knocked at the bathroom door. They were not the loudest of knocks. Taps was a closer description; her hand made contact with the door was better still. "Eh, George? I, eh, am r-ready," said Gabrielle softly, with only a tiny quiver at the end.

There was no answer, and no other sounds from beyond the door. That was because there was no one in the bathroom. Gabrielle found she was more relieved than disappointed. And somewhat shocked at the dried blood on her face, now that she had a mirror. She washed up, and decided that it was probably best not to wait for George to return with the cloak. Not that she was scared, of course. It was just best that she got back to her own room before the sun was fully up.

Except... the apron was gone.

v - v - v - v - v

Lord Voldemort tested the new ward, reaching out with magic to survey the nodes. The protective spell was one of his own, allowing none but those that bore his Mark through. The ward covered the walls, windows, and, unlike the previous one, the ceiling and roof. It was the legacy of terrestrial thinking that made the walls two feet of stone but the roof less than one of wood. Muggles and even wizards could only see threats at their level; Lord Voldemort had moved beyond both as a being that was magic itself. He could see things in a new perspective and view them with purer sight. He could now sense the hidden, and feel the flow of the magic, his very essence. He could also feel hungry, no doubt due to the current vessel he made do with. The regional delicacies would be from honey and nuts, if he remembered correctly.

The newly set ward rippled slightly, as if a mayfly lighted on a still pond, even as Lord Voldemort thought of sticky pastries. He would have sensed the Mark even without the barrier, though, and it turned his attention back to the morning's business. "Snape. I am in need of your left arm. Show me the Mark."

The potion master wordlessly complied, quickly unbuttoning and rolling up his sleeve. The Mark was angry and livid against his servant's sallow skin. Blue veins showed under the skin all around the brand. The combination was unhealthy looking. The Dark Lord took no real notice of it, thought of Wormtail, and touched the tip of his wand to the lurid Mark. The tendons on the arm tensed against one another, something else the Dark Lord took no notice of. "Let us see if Wormtail is an early riser."

A minute later a small man with graying, balding hair appeared with a loud pop. He held a wand at the ready, looked confused, and asked, "Snape? What is going on?"

"Bow to your lord, Pettigrew, and lower your wand," advised Snape.

"My - my lord?"

"Yes, Peter. You don't recognize me? Perhaps a reminder then," said the youthful voice of Lord Voldemort. He whipped his wand toward the baffled wizard, sending a flickering tongue of blue to strike the man's silver hand, brushing aside the other's attempt at a shield spell. Wormtail's wand dropped to the ground as he sagged to the floor in agony. The Dark Lord ended the spell once his target was on his knees, then brought his wand down to flatten the fallen wizard to the ground.

"My - my l - lord," rasped Wormtail urgently.

"Always what you think they want to hear Peter. Be assured that I am Lord Voldemort, and Lord Voldemort sees all," said the Dark Lord softly. The prone wizard slowly rose into the air, turned over, and dropped back to the floor painfully, face up. "Now, Wormtail, you were sent to retrieve an object for your lord. But I sense that it is not on your person, though you are in front of me. Why?"

"I - I - I w-will bring it, my lord."

"That does not answer my question, Wormtail. Did you not hear it, or shall I add a few more holes to your head so that the sound can get in?" The Dark Lord stood astride Pettigrew, staring intently into his eyes.

"My lord! I did not know -"

"Did not know, Wormtail? Who else could summon you like this? You claim not to know, but Lord Voldemort... will know." The Dark Lord gave a thought as to when the young vocal cords would be able to match his intended ominous tone, then bore his gaze in Wormtail's. The wretch had never been hard to read, and his current, lightly stunned state made it trivial. Magic, thought the Dark Lord, was wasted on the man, the parasite. Pettigrew would happily spend years as a rat, as he had for nearly the whole of the last year. The only resistance to the mental rummaging came from the most recent memories. A resistance that meant nothing to Lord Voldemort, who was the magic. The hidden scene was brief. A young blond girl wearing an apron suddenly appeared holding the Cup before being obscured by a sheet of flames. Anger exploded in the Dark Lord, and an urgent sense of dread. His blood ran cold. "Kill the girl!" the Dark Lord heard himself command, his throat saying the words without a thought. The sudden impulse caught him by surprise; it was some vestige of the other, the original will of the host body. He forcefully reasserted himself, which was difficult as agitated as he was. The fool had lost his Cup to a mere chit of a girl! Was she even a first-year yet? Why had he ever accepted the filth he stood over?

A glint from Wormtail's hand caught his eye, and the Dark Lord recalled. Pettigrew had given him the Potters, and had been a convenient servant when he had first regained his corporeal form. Now, Pettigrew was just another failure, a leech whose use of the magic that rightly belonged only to Lord Voldemort was becoming intolerable. There was, however, one more use for the rodent, thought the Dark Lord. "Find the girl, and find - it. -," he ordered.

"At once!" squeaked Wormtail.

The Dark Lord suspected that the sudden exclamation was due to the mistaken belief that the interview was over. It was not. "And now, Wormtail, I shall reward you by renewing my... faith in you," said Lord Voldemort generously. The cloth on Wormtail's left arm split, revealing the existing Dark Mark. The Dark Lord put his wand to it. "_Morsmordre__._"

The new wards did not dampen the scream at all.

v - v - v - v - v

The apron was gone. Why was the apron gone? That, criticized a second thought, was a stupid question. It was gone because George thought it would be funny for her to be caught. Did he even know what the apron really did? Probably, Gabrielle guessed with a sigh. The apron would be too useful for playing pranks for him, and Fred, not to know. On the bright side, added a third thought, he must be feeling better, so the diligent radiating had worked! It was too early, though, for optimism. Especially something so dumb.

It was also too early, realized Gabrielle with relief, for anyone else to be up. Besides George. She could make it back without the others finding out. Gabrielle was confident that George would not say anything directly. She did not even have to get back all the way to her room. All she had to be, logically, was on the correct side of the common room before anyone saw, and she could deny the rest. She would beat the prank. And she would need to keep her arms down, because the last thing Gabrielle wanted was for the hem of the quidditch shirt to rise.

Gabrielle backed out of George's room after another cautious, quiet search, which ruled out the way she normally cast the Accio spell, just in case the apron had only been moved, and quietly closed the door behind her. She had her wand, but Silencio was a charm, which meant that it worked on something the way it currently was, and the door was not currently banging against the jamb. She needed a jinx, which would work when something happened to the target of the spell. Unless, of course, the door and jamb could be considered as one. The problem there was that the jamb was in the wall, so was it, wondered Gabrielle, really not just part of the tent? She was pretty certain that she would not be able to silence the entire tent, even with her other wand which had the twist and her Grandmere's hair. The twist still bothered Gabrielle. She had always suspected that the story about the meta-core, or was it mega-core?, was just that: a story. Professor Festeller, Gabrielle knew, would surely know, but the -

"[Gabrielle!]" Gabrielle yelped in surprise and spun around, hands automatically holding down the hem of the shirt. Hermione, Harry, Ginny, and Ron were sitting in the common area. Ron looked to be sleeping. Ginny looked like she was ill, and had Harry holding her. "[What do you think you are doing?]" demanded Hermione sharply.

"Nothing! [Eh, nozzing! Eh, I, eh... What are you -]"

"[- lot doing up already?]" finished... George! He was, a dumbfounded Gabrielle could see, just exiting her room. Her room! What did that mean?

"[George? What in Merlin's name are you up to?]" asked Hermione. "[Why -]"

"[Went to find the loo in the night - peculiar rhythmic thumping woke me. Must have got lost on the way back,]" claimed George.

A pinker Hermione looked doubtful. "[You've got a loo in your suite.]"

"[The rooms over the shop aren't so posh. I wasn't looking for one there,]" explained George.

"[Even so, that does not explain how you ended up in a first-year girl's bedroom.]"

"[I am a sixth-year student,]" clarified Gabrielle. Next year, officially. No - be invisible pleaded a second thought.

"[It does,]" nodded George.

"[It does not.]"

"[It does. See, when I was finished - er... finished, I went back to what I thought was my room. But it couldn't have been, since there was a sixth-year in it, so I went to the opposite side. Obvious, really.]"

"[Hardly. Why was she in your room then?]"

"[Maybe something gave her a fright?]" proposed George. He was looked at Gabrielle. "[Didn't say which loo I used.]" Did he, wondered Gabrielle, just wink? Was she supposed to know what to say next?

"[I, eh, heard ze rhyzzmic bumping, aussi,]" started Gabrielle. Then she recalled the ridiculous scene with Hemorrhoid, and added ,"[Zen zere was zis, eh, howling, like a cat zat was stepped on, and -]"

"[You didn't! There was -]" Hermione stopped when George started laughing. Gabrielle's spirit soared. She had made him laugh.

Oh, thought Gabrielle, that Look from Hermione must have been learned from Fleur. And like Fleur, noted a second thought worriedly, she knows what to do with a wand.

"[Well there you have it. She was woken by a noise, heard something moving in her bathroom, and ran for safety,]" concluded George. "[A werewolf, a vampire, and Bellatrix have all had a go at her. You can hardly blame her.]"

"[And we're supposed to be all right with Gigi jumping into your bed, are we?]" snipped Hermione. Gabrielle thought the question made it seem like she had been a scared child - insulting. Although, that was probably better than being thought of as loose. Though not by much.

"[I suspect it was the only door not magically sealed or smelling like Fred's dung bomb range,]" hinted George. "['Sides, I wasn't there all night.]"

"[What is wrong wizz Ginny?]" asked Gabrielle. A different topic for the conversation was needed, before the wands came out.

"[She might have picked up a burden that's too heavy for her,]" commented Hermione quietly. Gabrielle hoped not. Papa had done that, and he had needed the squeezing belt that hissed like a snake. That had not been a pleasant surprise for a five year-old. Probably though, came a second thought, Hermione meant something else.

"[I'm fine now,]" said Ginny hoarsely.

"[What, eh, happened?]"

"[You-Know-Who blew his cauldron over something Wormtail did,]" replied Ginny.

"[Voldemort,]" added Harry firmly. Gabrielle had been expecting it this time.

"[Riddle,]" said Ginny just as firmly.

"[Is it like ze seance, where you feel cold, very much, and zen ze voice begins speaking and - ]" Ginny was shaking her head.

"[More like an icepick through the eye. It bloody hurt so much I thought it was a Cruciatus Curse,]" explained Ginny. "[I didn't get much other than Wormtail lost it and had to find it.]"

"[Eh, what is zis it]" asked Gabrielle. A part of her that was more awake began to sound an alarm.

"[Something of Voldemort's,]" said Harry. "[Something, erm, important to him.]"

"[Oh. Eh, how, eh, big would zis somezing be?]" asked Gabrielle carefully.

"Fëmijë. Nuk është puna."

"[Merde,]" groaned Gabrielle before she could stop herself. She smiled sheepishly. "[Eh, sorry. I must go and help Nona.]"

"[It's a bit early for a seance, isn't it?]" asked Hermione.

"[I have to - zere are ozzer zings I help wizz.]"

v - v - v - v - v

This, thought Gabrielle, this was a test. That is what it had to be. The comments about that Matty woman came to mind. George, decided Gabrielle, was testing her to see if a really irritating prank would make her run off. As if any of the others had! Except, those had mostly been Fred's doing. It might also, warned a second thought, be retribution for the night's foray. Either way, her underwear was gone. All of it, which was doubly bad since she started with a lack already, so it was not as if she could make do by turning them inside out. There was something else, resolved Gabrielle, to keep in the handbag.

What Gabrielle could not figure out was how hiding her underwear was supposed to be funny, unless she were to run from the room outraged and burst into tears or to hysterically refuse to come out of her room at all. If, thought Gabrielle, I just wore the denims, no one would really know at all. That violated the clean-underthings-daily rule of Maman, but she was not here to check and had finally stopped anyways. What was the point of George's prank? Gabrielle felt sure there had to be something more behind it than to see if she would have some sort of public tantrum.

Like another dawn, Gabrielle had an epiphany. Not public, but private. This was not intended to be a public humiliation, but a private prank. It was a test, yes, thought Gabrielle, to see how she would respond, and also a challenge. Another thought left her giddy - George was definitely flirting with her! Probably. She would have to play a trick on him in return. Gabrielle snatched up her handbag. Now she understood why George had sent the Wheezes. There was not much time though, so she would just have to take whatever she found first and then figure out a way to use it. Pepi-Z was sure to help; Poisseux too if he was finished being a Bad Toad. The loss of the apron, though, was a real setback. Gabrielle, her arm deep into the magical lining of the bag, pawed through the scattered items. I really should organize this, she thought. There were spare dressers and wardrobes at Delacour manor, but Maman would certainly notice if they went missing.

Gabrielle's fingers touched upon a silky something, and she started to pull it out. I am always prepared, thought Gabrielle, although she did not actually remember ever stowing underwear in the handbag. But it was not what she thought it was. The item she held was not white with pink trim, pink with white trim, nor even light blue with matching trim. It was the sheer black, short bodysuit that George had sent, from the twins' ShieldWear line. A year ago she would not have even considered wearing it without another layer beneath it; it was too daring. Now, though, she was a confident young woman. Also, there was not any other choice. George's prank had not worked. Gabrielle decided that she was already ahead of him.

Except, Gabrielle could not help but wonder, how would George know she was winning? The question of whether one was wearing proper unmentionables or not rarely came up, aside from Maman's formerly embarrassing inspections. Gabrielle supposed that inspections were something that Monique likely had to endure now, though that was less for what she wore than what she might have down them. Although, schemed Gabrielle, telling a humorous story about Monique would be a way to broach the topic of underwear. How it would end with her declaration that she was, in fact, currently wearing such needed some thought. The problem, considered Gabrielle further, was there was no reason for George to doubt that his prank had worked. If she threw a fit or refused to come out of her room, then he would know for sure his attempt had been successful. If she tried to act normally, then he would think she was just putting up a brave front in the face of adversity. What, thought Gabrielle, was something that could only be done if one was wearing underwear? That is, in public.

And suddenly it came to Gabrielle; she saw the solution clearly. She would wear the skirt again. That was something that would make George wonder! Gabrielle imagined herself curtsying and bending over to pick things up, each time sneaking a look at George's reddened ears as he struggled to understand how she could be so bold. Then his eyes would widen in surprise as he guessed or remembered, and George would grin at her as he realized that she was his equal. It would be a perfect moment, dreamed Gabrielle. She just would roll up the short legs of the bodysuit and not hike up the skirt much. Or at all, because the black garment really was - very - sheer, and they would be able to see everyth - Thwock!

v - v - v - v - v

Gabrielle wondered if Fleur had felt like this. Someone following you around, asking endless questions - she could see now that during the time in her life when Fleur was who she wanted to be, before the Tri-Wizard debacle, that her sister had actually been quite tolerant. Certainly more tolerant than Gabrielle was feeling toward Ginny. Of course, Fleur enjoyed worshippers, whereas Ginny was just curious. Or nosy.

The perfect moment would have to wait. The appearance of the ladle meant that Gabrielle was out of time, and she had had to hurry out of the tent to save herself the humiliation of being chased out by the kitchen implement. Again. The look on George's face was not so much shocked as entertained. Unfortunately, she had forgotten to wear the amulets from Nona, who was rather adamant about that after a shocking peek into Gabrielle's blouse. The ladle was also adamant, and chased Gabrielle back into the tent, completely unaware of the damage being done to her image as a mature young woman. The ladle herded Gabrielle out of the tent too, until Ginny snatched it out of the air and announced that she would be going with Gabrielle. This was not something that Gabrielle welcomed, since that meant that the youngest Weasley would discover the Gabrielle was usually little more than kitchen help, and not practically a full-time Seer. Ginny explained in a mutter that she was feeling a little suffocated by Harry. Gabrielle was more concerned by Nona's reaction, and gave Ginny a hurried description of the old crone's peculiarities. Especially the one about wands.

Nona, suspected Gabrielle, was completely unfazed by Ginny's presence by the virtue of Gabrielle expecting some sort of ornery upset. The old witch was just being contrary in sparing Ginny her usual dour glare. Gabrielle was further surprised by her occasional covenant sister's actions. Ginny had simply taken a seat on the barrel at the table, picking up the knife set there. As if that happened all the time, Nona silently shifted over another barrel for Gabrielle, who was being shocked enough for the other two. She and Ginny sliced and chopped until the really, when Gabrielle thought of it now, small, rather minor accident, which brought out Nona's gross poultice. Gabrielle's knife was taken away and the crystal ball brought out, and she was ladled until Anthony was found.

After Nona and breakfast, at which Gabrielle had had to pick up a fallen fork twice near George, it was time to tend to Soleil. Gabrielle was sure George was still working it out. His nonchalant expression was clearly all an act. At least, came a heated second thought, he had been watching.

"[You, eh, must act afraid when you meet Soleil,]" advised Gabrielle. She was thinking that Ginny would be brave or defiant, and then Soleil would do something to change that.

"[Do you know what this is?]" asked Ginny, indicating her arm.

"[It was an accident and I have apologized already,]" sighed Gabrielle heavily. "[If zere was a petite knife zen I would -]"

"[I mean this gray thing.]"

"[Zat is ze poultice zat Nona makes.]"

"[I know it's a poultice. You're not stupid - least according to my git brother - what is this?]" repeated Ginny.

"[Eh, it is best to zink about zat,]" said Gabrielle. Could she assume that the git was George? What was a git? "[Ginny, about Soleil -]"

"[Yeah, yeah. I'll do the 'oh my paws and whiskers' for him,]" said Ginny. "[Do you really need those boots?]"

"[Eh, what?]" Ginny was not making any sense. Abraxans had hooves, not paws.

"[I thought animals did what you told them to do,]" added Ginny.

"[Eh, what?]" asked Gabrielle again. "[Zat is not true. Also, Soleil's hooves are very big. Zere are, eh, accidents.]" Ordering Montaigne around was unimaginable. And possibly lethal.

"[With you around I can believe it,]" nodded Ginny, rubbing her arm in what Gabrielle felt was a completely unnecessary gesture. She - had - apologized. "[Are you going to work in the Ministry's Department of Magical Beasts?]"

"[Non,]" blurted Gabrielle in surprise. "[Why would you zink zat? I am going to be a Seer. Also, eh, I am learning curse-breaking.]" Not, she had to admit, on a daily basis, but this was not Beauxbatons.

"[I dunno - Seeing looks a bit painful,]" smirked Ginny. Gabrielle frowned - this might be a very long morning. "[Worse than Mum ever was, that Nona. Was that detention or something? That's what -]" The redhead stopped and slapped her hands to her nose. "[Sweeb Morgaba!]"

"[It is not zat bad,]" said Gabrielle, rolling her eyes. Yet. Perhaps she had been too generous with Soleil's feed lately. The two were almost to the Abraxan's stall. Gabrielle plotted how she could get Ginny to stand right in front of it while she raked.

"Mademoiselle Delacour." Stanislaw stepped out from space beside the thick wooden structure. Soleil issued a ringing challenge. Stanislaw started to reach into his hip-waders.

"That is not necessary," said Gabrielle quickly. She did not want to have to spend the time needed to assuage Soleil's ego if Nona's doll was brought out.

"You must visit Herr Von Schnittwinkel," declared the wizard. "He is asking for you. Wear the leaves, liebchen, if they are still fresh." Stanislaw turned to go.

"What about my six galleons?" demanded Gabrielle, more to annoy Stanislaw than anything else. She would ask Hermione about breaking the vow. Von Schnittwinkel was old and insane, which was a dangerous combination in her experience. And, he would be being treated by the even older and more insane healer.

"- Five - galleons. I had not forgotten," corrected Stanislaw sternly. He brought out a leather purse from the depths of his rubberized trousers, poured out the coins, and handed them to a sheepish Gabrielle - it had not been a good effort. "Herr Professor will want you tonight. There is a circle."

"Eh, a circle? Of what?" puzzled Gabrielle as Stanislaw started to walk away.

"Magic, of course."

"[Who was that? Why did he give you those galleons?]" asked Ginny interestedly.

"[Zat was Stanislaw, and ze galleons are payment for ze Seeing I do for him.]" said Gabrielle importantly. Oh mon Dieu, that sounded so cool to say. Where to put the galleons was a problem. Gabrielle settled on her socks. Two for the left, three for the right.

"[Are you having me on?]" squinted Ginny suspiciously. "[Good thing he doesn't know about the ladle.]"

Gabrielle was not sure what to make of the last comment, but there was no time to think about it as Soleil tired of waiting. The thick timbers of his stall bowed from the kick. Gabrielle scrambled forward over the gate. "Stop that, Soleil. What if you get a splinter?" She noticed that Ginny was in no hurry to follow. "Stanislaw ran away," exaggerated Gabrielle. Much head bobbing. "Eh, I brought have a guest to see you. You must not try to frighten her too much." She hunched her shoulders to fend off the thick tongue. He seems, thought Gabrielle, to be in a good mood. She pushed open the gate. Soleil instantly reared and bellowed, crashing his hooves to the floor when he landed. Honestly, thought Gabrielle, when will he grow up? She turned to see where Ginny was.

Ginny had been crossing the entrance to the stall, and now stood directly in front of it looking very pale. She seemed frozen in place. "[Eh, 'oh my paws and whiskers',]" hinted Gabrielle. as Soleil stomped again.

"[Oh my paws and whiskers,]" mumbled Ginny. "[Merlin's ghost, he's bloody huge!]"

"[And still growing!]" chirped Gabrielle proudly. "[You should, eh, scream, or somezing. You could pretend to faint.]"

"[You won't let him trample me, right?]"

"[Eh, what? Of course not. He is just loud,]" assured Gabrielle. "[Like Fred.]"

"[Eeee!]" said Ginny unconvincingly. She dropped to the ground in an equally unconvincing faint, and covered her head with her hands.

"There, are you happy now?" asked Gabrielle, moving to stand in front of Soleil. He was obviously pleased, kicking the rear of the stall and whinnying victoriously. "There will be no whisky for your oats if you have scared her to death," added Gabrielle, wagging her finger. That settles the colt down!

Gabrielle made a show of hurrying to Ginny's side. "Oh, thank Merlin she is still alive," said Gabrielle theatrically. Ginny barely opened an eye to peer at Gabrielle. "[It is, eh, okay now, I zink. He has won his little game.]"

"[You're broom isn't short bristles, it's lost the handle as well. You know that?]"

"[Eh, what?]"

"[I felt the ground shaking from over here. You just stand next to that monster like nothing is happening?]" asked Ginny in disbelief.

"[You do not have to stay, you know zis]" said Gabrielle, annoyed. Soleil was not a monster; he was just playing. "[It is ze way he is.]"

"[So are you going to tell me now that he's really just harmless?]"

"[Eh... no. But now zat he has, eh, defeated you, he will not care zat you stay,]" explained Gabrielle. Probably - her scream could have been more realistic.

"[You did this too?]" Ginny stood up and dusted herself. Then she looked at her hands, not having realized in time what would be in the dust in front of an equine stall.

"[Non. But, eh, I bring his food, of course.]"


	23. Mists

Chapter Twenty-three - Mists

Gabrielle trudged back to Soleil's stall with the bale of hay. She could use a Featherweight charm on an object, mostly, it would definitely be lighter after, but she had trouble thinking of a bale of hay as single thing. There were just so many stalks - or was it stems? - going in every possible direction.

Soleil bobbed his head at her arrival. Or, more likely, the arrival of his breakfast. Ginny knelt on his back, between the wings, waving her wand to and fro. The redhead had done some transfiguring, and now had three brushes working on Soleil's coat.

"[You are spoiling him,]" complained Gabrielle.

"[Me? You let him chew your head!]" laughed Ginny. "[I'm just trying to keep him calm while you were out.]"

"[Not my head, it is my hair, and only when he, eh, eh,]" began Gabrielle. Only when he wants to was the truth of it. Soleil would stop if she insisted, unless he would not. Gabrielle looked at the colt, and saw a king tended by his servants. But Soleil was not king - that was Montaigne. Professor Elevagre was going to have a real problem when it was time to fly back to Beauxbatons. Gabrielle then looked at the large bottle of amber liquid that waited. She should have poured the whiskey into the oats instead of giving the colt the spirits as she would Montaigne. She was spoiling him as well.

"[How do I get down?]" asked Ginny.

"[Hold onto his mane, and when his head is down you can fall,]" explained Gabrielle. It was too late to pour the whiskey into the pail of oats now that Soleil was watching her.

"[Is there a way that doesn't involve falling?]"

"[It will not be far, I zink,]" said Gabrielle. Ginny was taller than she was; nearly everyone in Gabrielle's class was too. Which was true, sighed a second thought, only if nearly really meant all.

"[Is there a ward on the walls?]" asked Ginny. "[I can't transfigure them at all.]" She was flicking her wand at the nearest of the walls.

"[Eh, what? No, zey are made from ze, eh, bois stériles.]" Gabrielle poured half the bottle into a bucket and put it in front of Soleil, who dipped his muzzle to it. Then she poured the remaining liquid into the oats. The Abraxan eyed her suspiciously. "The oats taste better this way, do they not?" said Gabrielle with a shrug, giving the animal an earnest smile.

"[Thought you said I'd have to fall?]" Ginny was looking down the long slope of Soleil's sturdy neck.

"[I did say it would not be far.]" Gabrielle could not help herself and started scratching behind Soleil's ears. They always looked so itchy.

"[Can I use his wing to swing down?]"

"[No! Zat, eh, zat will hurt him,]" warned Gabrielle. "[Zen he will be very angry.]" She pulled out her little wand and cut the twine on the hay bale. "[_Diffindo__!_ _Diffindo__!_ What is wrong? _Diffindo__!_ Finally! You can, eh, fall into zat.]"

"[Ha, no,]" said Ginny pulling her own wand. "[_Engorgio__._ Now I can jump into it.]"

Ginny leapt from Soleil's back. At the same moment, the Abraxan took note of the novelty presented to him. It was hay, of course, but it was - really - big - hay. A meal fit for a king. He swung his head over to sample it, undeterred by Gabrielle standing in the way. She was swept into the really - big - hay. Ginny, already plummeting, shouted a warning. A warning that was heeded by Gabrielle, and which allowed her to stumble backwards just far enough so that when Ginny landed on her, all but her head crashed into hay. The really - big - hay. Gabrielle's world exploded in dancing, twinkly lights just in front of her eyes, then it all went dark quickly.

Gabrielle woke to the overpowering stench of Abraxan breath, and the mucus-slicked tongue of Soleil. Her head hurt a lot, and she groaned. The huge, rubbery lips tugged at her hair, and Gabrielle attempted to bat the colt's head away.

"[Thank Merlin, you're alive! Can you crawl this way at all? He won't let me near,]" said Ginny. "[There's gotta be a healer in camp, right?]"

Gabrielle heard Ginny, and half rolled over before giving up. It was difficult to say whether it was the blow to her head or Soleil's pungent breath that was making her dizzy. "The healer? The healer is -" Gabrielle's reply was cut off by a tongue the size of her forearm. One had to close one's mouth.

"[Well, it looks like he won't eat you. I'll get a healer. Someone will know where - gah!]" Ginny jumped back in surprise as a house-elf appeared with a pop right in front of her.

The very old house-elf bowed to Ginny. "Pardon Blackig, Herrin. Blackig wird ihr Heiler Leistenverletzunger."

"[Erm, that's nice. You run along now and fetch some tea.]"

"Excuse Blackig, mademoiselle. Blakig will take her to Healer Leistenverletzunger."

"[It's all right, forget the tea. How about a spot of dusting?]"

"I am fine," asserted Gabrielle. The healer was insane, and, really, very creepy. She pushed against Soleil's snuffling nose to roll onto her side as proof of her excellent health. It would have been more convincing if she had not whimpered.

What followed was a horrific battle between the possessive Abraxan and the determined house-elf, with Gabrielle as the prize. The house-elf used his magic to try and drag her from the stall, but that was countered by Soleil clamping onto Gabrielle's blouse and pulling her back. Blackig, who looked quite old to Gabrielle, with the extra-large and extra-hairy ears and nose of a grandpere, was somehow able to drag the Abraxan backwards by the tail. Equally amazing was that the little elf managed to survive the kick that mashed him against the back wall of the stall. In the tug-of-war between the two, the house-elf's magic was offset by his being small enough to stomp, while Soleil's advantage was waning both because Gabrielle's blouse was tearing and because Blackig, seemingly, could not be permanently squashed. It was Ginny who darted in during another tail-pulling attempt, and ended it. With one arm holding Gabrielle's body vertical and the other using Gabrielle's hair to hold her head up, Ginny convinced the colt that Gabrielle had gotten up on her own and was leaving. It was bad enough to be treated as an over-sized doll, thought Gabrielle, but the voice Ginny did for her was completely ridiculous. There was no way that she sounded that squeaky. A second thought wondered if Soleil had acquiesced only because he could see that he might not win, and if that was actually clever.

v - v - v - v - v

Ginny, thought Gabrielle warmly, was definitely a coven sister again. Gabrielle lay on somewhat stained sheets that covered a lumpy cot transfigured from a small chest of drawers. Her position was uncomfortable because she was trying to touch the linen as little as possible. The lumps were from the drawer handles; Gabrielle was sure that she could have done better. She remembered Stanislaw saying that the Alchemical Arts were Healer Listen-for-it's supposed speciality. It was certainly not Wand Arts.

What had renewed the sisterhood, though, was not the fact that Ginny had helped bring Gabrielle to the haphazard infirmary, nor that she had repaired Gabrielle's blouse, but that she had not left! With a very good imitation of Mrs. Weasley, Ginny had denied, in no uncertain terms even with the language barrier, all requests that Gabrielle remove her clothing for a complete examination. Gabrielle supposed that the house-elf, what was left of him, could have forced the issue, but Healer Listen-for-it had taken one look at the poor creature when they had arrived and ordered it to stand on a small square of carpet to keep from dripping onto the floor. If only the sheets had been treated so well! All the badly hurt elf had to do was translate. Finally, Gabrielle was diagnosed with a misalignment of the brain caused by unknown circumstances. Which made no sense, because she was sure that she had told the healer that she had hit her head. The treatment consisted of two flexible wooden rods, half a meter long, with tiny hands carved on the ends, that were shoved up her nose so far that they nearly disappeared. Even with the wooden fingers curling into the palms, getting the rods into her nostrils was tight fit, and the, hopefully, necessary wiggling of the rods twisted her nose painfully. Gabrielle had to admit that her head definitely felt better once the implements were removed, but whether they had helped her initial condition was debatable. The side-effects, though, were definite.

"[Where did they conjure that old fossil from? He can't be the healer at your school?]" asked Ginny. "[Bit of a perv, if you want to know,]" she added as the old wizard disappeared into the back carrying the house-elf.

"[I see two of everyzing!]"

"[Huh. Good that he took the house-elf, then. Cor, that one's a wreck. That bwa-steer-real wood is dangerous. I tried a couple of spells to move you, and nothing happened!]"

"[Ginny, I see - two - of everyzing!]"

"[You want me to fetch Healer Wanna-peek? I'm sure he'll have some reason to have a look at your bum.]"

"[Eh, what?]" Neither Ginny was making sense.

"[Melusina?]" came a weak, thready voice. "[Is it her?]"

"[Hullo?]" called Ginny, looking around. "[You heard that, right?]"

"[Eh, I zink it is Herr, eh, Von Schnittwinkel,]" said Gabrielle. She could not see him, but that was not surprising. The tent was still a mess.

"[Ah, Mister Rubber-Trousers mentioned that name. Who's this Melusina?]"

"[Zat is, eh, hard to explain.]"

Herr Von Schnittwinkel was discovered by Ginny to be laying on a pile of woven rugs, tucked behind a stack of large specimen jars. He was not doing well, and his pale complexion had a bluish cast to it. Gabrielle suspected that his breathing was probably impaired by the large, open hole through the right side of his chest. It was the sort of wound she had seen before, on Pip Elmsley and Tibault Granencole. His flowing white mane of hair was still luxurious. Perhaps it was not completely natural.

"[You warned me, sweet Melusina, but... there is no way... to avoid our fate,]" said Von Schnittwinkel softly.

"[What is he on about?]" asked Ginny.

"[She is... a remarkable Seer,... and foretold that the... unicorn would kill me.]" The old wizard was wracked by a series of gasping coughs.

"[Really? Gigi?]" Ginny's tone was doubtful, which Gabrielle noticed right off.

"[I zink it was nearly kill. Eh, oui, zat is correct. Zis means zat you will be, eh... okay,]" assured Gabrielle. She tried to smile confidently, like you were supposed to when visiting the sick in hospital. Assuming, that is, added a second thought, he gets proper treatment. Why, wondered Gabrielle, was he stashed back here like the unused rugs he was on top of? Gabrielle decided right there that Stanislaw would answer for this. Herr Von Schnittwinkel was his customer after all, and had many galleons.

"[That is true... I did not... die when the... beast struck,]" agreed wounded wizard. His voice was now layered with a low gurgle. "[I fear... the wound will be the end... of me.]"

"[Not if you were in a proper hospital, like ze one in Paris! Zey can do amazing zings zere! Like my hand. Or you can see Healer Maltranchier at Beauxbatons. He, eh, has experience, very much, wizz unicorn injuries.]"

"[He looks a bit peaky for travel,]" noted Ginny. Gabrielle glared at her. "[What's this about your hand?]"

"[Give me your palm,]" ordered Gabrielle, addressing the gasping man and ignoring Ginny. She added an imperious wave of her hand, but doubted it was necessary. Von Schnittwinkel presented his hand limply, and Gabrielle failed to grasp either of them.

"[Just close one eye, will you?]" suggested Ginny. "[With all the knocks you take you must know what to do.]" Gabrielle frowned at the implication. She would not have seen the healer at all if it had not been for Ginny. Or the vampire. Also, the ward that had exploded.

It was easier to gain the old man's hand doing as Ginny suggested. Gabrielle found the set of wrinkles on his fate line that represented the unicorn attack. His line - did - extend past that event; she had been right. Just... it did not go on that much longer, and it ended in a tangle of creases that she did not recall from earlier. Gabrielle wondered if that meant he was shrivelling up. That happened to old people. She decided to tell him that there was another battle. Who wanted to die from terminal wrinkles?

"[Perhaps... a small kiss, gentle fairy? Before my... time is gone?]" wheedled Von Schmittwinkel in a dry whisper.

"[Eh, what? No, not when you are like zis. I see, zat is, I See anozzer battle for you, so I zink you will feel better, very soon.]" Gabrielle was very pleased by the 'I See' part, and smiled broadly. A second thought wondered if 'the mists that conceal the Hidden Realm have parted, and I have Seen' would not have been more dramatic.

"[A kiss... when I can... stand again?]" Von Schnittwinkel bargained. His face, with its blue tinge, added a shade of red, leaving him purple.

"[Eh, peut-être. Not on ze lips, zough.]" It would be like giving Aunt Laurel a kiss, thought Gabrielle. Not necessary, but over quickly enough. He probably would not make a show of wiping - his - face.

"[My wand. Give me... my wand.]" The urgency of his request left the wizard coughing.

"[Eh, you must not strain yourself! Zere is time. You know zis,]" warned Gabrielle. "[Ze, eh, mists zat, eh, hide ze Hidden Realm, zey have parted, and -]"

"[This would be it here, right?]" interrupted Ginny. She held up a stout, ebony wand that, even in the dim light filtering past the specimen jars, showed deep scratches. Gabrielle wondered why people did not take better care of their wands, and if Ginny even knew how rude she could be. The wand was held out to her, and Gabrielle took it when she remembered to close an eye.

The wand was not so much heavy as weighty, and it felt like it was dragging along a history when Gabrielle gave it a small wave. It was not the wand of a frail old man, that much she could sense. There was, there was... an aura of violence, reluctant violence about it. She closed her other eye, then opened both of them quickly at the rush of carnage. "Schwarzemtearbeiter!" Gabrielle blurted. She thrust the wand at Von Schnittwinkel, and, most importantly, away from herself.

"[Ah... You would... of course... know that name,... gentle Melusina,]" smiled the white-maned wizard. He took the wand from Gabrielle, taking the time, she noticed, to clasp her hand in his. Insane, warned a second thought. "[It has been... a long time since... called that.]"

"[What's that mean?]" asked Ginny. Herr Von Schnittwinkel did not reply, and appeared to have fallen asleep, or... Gabrielle bent over the lined face of the wounded man, her ear turned to listen for his breathing. A second thought wondered why. The only thing worse than the poor man dying was knowing he had died right there, right then. She - had - warned him!

Herr Von Schnittwinkel was not dead. He was alive enough, in fact, to abruptly raise his head and steal a quick peck on Gabrielle's cheek. She pulled back and rubbed her face on her shoulder in annoyance while his laughter turned into a gurgling sputter. Honestly, she thought.

"[This is a Veela thing, isn't it?]" asked Ginny.

v - v - v - v - v

Lord Voldemort sat with furrowed brow, staring at the peculiar wand that he held loosely between the palms of his clasped hands. Enchanting metal was difficult. It was not difficult to manipulate, to change its shape and form, but most of the wizarding world could not set a ward or lasting charm on the material. There were but a few who had the talent and ability to place a powerful enchantment on a metal object of any size; there was a reason why the Hogwarts founders' relics were what they were. That proof of superiority was also why he, Lord Voldemort, had chosen them for the horcrux. Yet the goblins routinely magicked metals, base and noble. That seemed to indicate that their magic was not - his - magic. But the thin, troublesome wand, usable by a wizard, implied otherwise. Though it was not his wand by any means, the Dark Lord knew for certain that he could use it, if he deigned to sully himself. If it was just a mundane goblin wand, then those lesser beings were also feeding upon his very essence, and would need to be exterminated as well. It was also possible, considered the Dark Lord, that the wand was not common, but extraordinary. Perhaps it was meant as a gift or a bribe for the unfortunate blockage in the Floo, or his forebears.

Either way, the thin rod also represented proof to the Dark Lord that he could eventually leave a common flesh and blood vessel for a superior one of his own design. Careful preparation would be required, and certain arcane techniques would need to be learned, but, thought Lord Voldemort confidently, I have done that before, and succeeded beyond all others. Leaving this plebian plane of mere existence for the boundless realm of pure magic was... destiny. And, the Dark Lord smiled, I know where to find goblins.

Further consideration of how the very world would be as a stone in Lord Voldemort's hand when he fully fledged as a complete being of magic ended as Serverus Snape stepped through the door, and bowed. The Dark Lord's eyes lighted on the thin, white sack the man carried.

"[You have been successful, Severus,]" said the Lord Voldemort. It was not a question, but an expectation.

"[Yes, my lord,]" replied the former professor. Though his mind was fully occluded, as always, the Dark Lord could read from his movements that his former spy felt put upon. There were more important matters to focus on than a servant's injured pride, however, as a small box was brought forth from the sack with a surprising amount of noisy crinkling. Leave it to muggles to fail at sacks, he thought. The box was opened, and presented.

"[Bakhlava, halivah, and tulumba. The shop was out of walnut cake for the day,]" described Snape levelly. Several of the tulumba - sticky, fried wads of batter if Snape was any judge - were selected by the youthful, deadly hand of the Dark Lord.

"[You have questions,]" stated Lord Voldemort, after swallowing the sweet dessert.

"[No, my lord.]"

"[You do, Severus. Lord Voldemort sees all. I value your counsel; I also value your obedience. Follow Wormtail. I have no illusions about his chances of success. We will learn nothing if he fails, unless there is a witness.]"

"[At once, my lord.]"

"[Take one of the tulumba; the small one.]"

v - v - v - v - v

"[ - and all you have to do is hold something? That's brilliant!]" enthused Ginny. Gabrielle was not entirely sure if the adjective applied to her talent - talents - or to the fact that she received galleons for her efforts, but she beamed anyway. Ginny did not have to know about the licking. "[You mentioned seances - do you get paid for those too?]"

"[Eh, no. I am only Nona's - ]" started Gabrielle. She had been about to say that she was Nona's special rock, but was saved by a second thought that could see how stupid that would sound. With Von Sneaky-lips apparently unconscious - Gabrielle was not going to check again - the witches had moved back to sit on the crude cot. The house-elf had left with Healer Leistenverletzunger, which was a relief. The double-vision would hopefully go away by itself, and not require some weird instrument to treat. "[Eh, I only help wizz ze chanting, and I, eh, make ze voices. I zink Nona's customers, zey are muggles. Zere would not be any galleons.]"

"[You make zee - the voices? What do you mean by that? It's all a show? Mum went to a seance once to check up on a cousin or something. 'Don't see what good that would do, once you're dead, what more could happen? She got some old crackpot worrying about the cauldron he left boiling,]" described Ginny. "[Cost nearly three galleons, and the old fraud wouldn't give a knut back! She told Mum that messages from 'the beyond' were always cryptic, and that the meaning would become clear in time.]"

"[Zat 'appened to me!]" blurted Gabrielle. "[First zere was one voice, zen zere was anozzer! Ze second, eh, eh, spirit, he was English. He, he said, eh - ]" Gabrielle stopped, her mouth still forming the words. It had not been some 'crackpot' gabbling through her. It had been a prophecy! Wait until Madame Sombrevoire hears, thought Gabrielle excitedly. The Outstanding for next year will be so easy! Too bad, warned a second thought, no one wrote it down.

"[That's the thing about head injuries. Just when you think you're fine, it comes right back,]" sighed Ginny.

"[Eh, what? Nevermind zat. Ginny! You are all in, eh, great danger!]"

"[You're joking, right? Harry's been in danger since he started Hogwarts. We drove across the whole of France in a bloody tin with wheels like a bunch of muggles because of 'great danger',]" said Ginny.

"[Ze mists zat hide ze -]"

"[Oh, give it rest, will you?]"

"[Non! Ze mists zat hide ze hidden realm have parted - ]"

"[Lifted. Mists lift,]" interrupted Ginny.

"[Eh, what?]"

"[They don't part. Fog lifts, mists lift. Veils or curtains part.]"

"[Eh... zese ones parted. Ze mists zat - ]"

"[Funny sort of mist, then, as mists go.]"

"[Zey were in ze Hidden Realm; zey can be different,]" argued Gabrielle.

"[I thought they were hiding this Hidden Realm.]"

"[Ginny, shut up! Ze mists of ze Hidden Realm zat were hiding ze ozzer zings in ze Hidden Realm parted because zat is what zey do and I have seen. Zat is, I have Seen,]" said Gabrielle in a rush. Ginny laughed, and Gabrielle started to pull out her wand which hung from its ribbon around her neck. It was unfortunately tangled with the weird claw thing from Nona.

"[That needs work,]" commented Ginny, who was already holding her wand. "[So does your quick draw.]"

"[Do you want to know ze prophecy or not?]" demanded Gabrielle. Ginny was annoying, mostly because she was right. Which was very annoying. Shooting a ball of fire at her in here, thought Gabrielle, probably would have been a bad idea anyway, what with all the clutter.

"[Oh, now there's a prophecy too? You've been busy,]" mocked Ginny.

"[Oui, zat is true. I take care of Soleil and zen I have to help Nona, and also ze Professor, eh, lectures about ze stuff he finds in ze dirt. Zere is also zat Stanislaw - I must See for him and, eh, help wizz breaking ze curses,]" explained Gabrielle, missing the sarcasm. The last task was, in Gabrielle's opinion, completely true. Just ever so slightly exaggerated. "[It is not a proper summer holiday at all.]"

"[Well, at least no one is trying to kill you.]"

"[Eh, what? I told you about ze vampire, did I not?]"

"[All right, all right. I'm sorry for teasing you,]" apologized Ginny. "[Let's hear this prophecy of yours.]"

Gabrielle smiled, victorious. This was more like how she should be treated. "[Ze mists zat hide-]"

"[You did that part already.]"

"[Not properly! Eh, ze mists zat hide ze Hidden Realm have parted, and I have Seen,]" continued Gabrielle over Ginny's loud sigh. "[Ze, eh, spinster soul who, eh, is young... approaches. Zen zere was somezing about a horn. Ze rat found somezing ze toad stole, and destiny power. Eh, his servants... do not have hearts?]" Merde! That was not it at all.

"[Erm... yeah. That's about as useful as any of them. Any idea who it's for?]" asked Ginny.

"[It is for Harry Potter,]" said Gabrielle confidently. That part was clear. Then she worried if telling the prophecy to Ginny first was all right. It was, after all, her first one and she wanted to do everything correctly. "[Eh, I zink zere was more, but, eh... I can not remember it clearly... because, because, eh, I hit my head!]" Yes, thought Gabrielle, that is the reason.

"[No surprise it's for Harry. What in Merlin's name is a spinster soul? Someone's dead, cat-loving auntie is after Harry? I'm pretty sure Bellatrix was married to someone. Or something.]"

"[Eh, zat part may not be exact...]"

"[Ah. Maybe next time we'll wait for the mists to lift, eh?]" grinned Ginny. It was Gabrielle's turn to sigh; she should have written it down. Which, perked up a second thought, made it Nona's fault since the old witch had obviously failed to realize the significance of it. The seance should have stopped there. Except, noted a less forgiving thought, Nona did not understand English. Probably. "[Let's find Hermione. There's got to be a trick to loads of the stuff she can remember.]"

Ginny reached out both hands to help Gabrielle up. Or was it one hand? "[Eh, I am not certain I can leave,]" worried Gabrielle. The insane old healer had not said she had to stay, but she had a cot. On the other end of the wand, thought Gabrielle, he may have forgotten her like he had forgotten his other patient.

"[Well, I'd be all right leaving you if you had proper knickers.]"

v - v - v - v - v

Tracking Wormtail magically was a trivial task. He was not actively concealing his movement, or was not particularly adept at doing so. That, thought Snape, indicated a degree of comfort and familiarity with the situation the Dark Lord had sent him into. Or, it indicated a not unprecedented level of incompetence. Either way, and since the main hazard to detection seemed to be muggle buildings, Severus Snape had time to ruminate.

Not that these ruminations yielded a clearer picture of the world. Never had he felt so unmoored. The plots and counter-plots between the Dark Lord and the Headmaster had been as easy to follow as a child's tale compared to the aimless actions now. Snape, having taught, and suffered, the flower of wizardkind for years, blamed youth. The Dark Lord was clearly being affected by the stolen body. Most obviously in appetite. Where once a hundred subterfuges bent to an overarching goal were all in play, now there seemed only to be impulsive, singular actions. The unfortunate Madame Malfoy had sent another diatribe imploring, begging, and threatening by turns. As an after thought, the missive had described, in brief, the fallout from the sanctuary debacle. A cadre of Death Eaters discovered within the damaged largest pinned the blame for the collapse of the the two smaller on the Dark Lord. The population of Hogsmeade, Snape was stunned to learn, had nearly been wiped out. But, as few Ministry families felt the need to move from their well-warded manors as they had urged others to do, suspicion and resentment fell upon them as well. The fabric of English wizarding society was being torn to shreds, and it would all make some sort of sense if the Dark Lord or his proxy was moving to seize the day. Instead, the Dark Lord stuffs himself with puddings like the student he resembles and focuses solely on Wormtail and whatever the worthless imbecile had lost.

Potter, it was glaringly obvious, had no apparent strategy either. Narcissa had written, in the main, with pleas and demands to locate her lost son. Where Draco was, now a year on, was still as mysterious as why he had been taken.

Pranks, thought Snape suddenly. That is what these events felt like. A large amount of effort expended for a short-term triumph, with little or no long-term gain achieved or even expected. Given Potter's obnoxious heritage it was really all that one could expect. The indiscriminate murder, though, of wizards and witches, foes and supporters, parents and children - it should all mean more, instead of being the equivalent of the least funny, and most deadly, dung-bomb ever. The wizarding world once ground itself between the Order and Grindelwald, between Dumbledore and the Dark Lord. Now it found itself nearly shattered at the hands of some dark version of the Weasley twins. The former professor's wished for an equivalent to taking House points, but then recalled that that had never stopped the Weasley pair from wreaking their mayhem.

The sight of fields of crops just beyond the edge of the trees refocused Snape's thoughts. Wormtail, he decided, would be scurrying across the open fields as a rat, at least until some hawk took notice. It was not necessary to hurry after him. The potions master could see the probable destination as he looked out past the scrub. There was a cluster of tents sitting in the middle of a field of grain, gathered around what seemed to be a rather large hole in the earth. Nothing in particular gave away whether this was a wizard or muggle gathering. The single, small cottage was an oddity, but both muggles and wizards shared that trait. There was, however, a distinct lack of the huge, brightly colored mechanical arms that muggles somehow used to dig with. Caution and observation, decided Snape, would be advisable.

v - v - v - v - v

Proper knickers or not, Gabrielle never left the cluttered, ad hoc infirmary. This was due to the arrival of her very nearly betrothed, Fred, and two Harry Potters. Both twins were bleeding badly from their noses into identical towels pressed to their faces. Closing one eye reduced the casualty count, and the number of Harrys, by half. "[Oh mon Dieu! George! What has happened!]" cried Gabrielle, jumping up from her cot. She made to run between the Ginnys, but that turned out to be where the red-haired witch actually was.

"[Oy! Don't just step on me,]" complained Ginny as Gabrielle clambered over. It was an emergency!

"[Sit down! Sit down! I will get ze 'Ealer!]" Gabrielle pulled then pushed George toward the cot. Their progress was impeded a little by the fact that Ginny was still in the way.

"[Merlin! Harry, help me up,]" demanded Ginny. "[I was safer in the stall with the bloody Abraxan.]"

"[Id's dottid, luv,]" murmured George. Which Gabrielle ignored, since when she pulled the towel away she could see his nose was mashed flat and blood still spurted. George grunted when, in alarm, she pushed the soaked towel back against his face.

"[Merlin's ghost! Harry, what the heck happened?]" asked Ginny.

"['Dunno, really. Hermione had a go at him,]" said Harry, a note of shock still in his voice. Gabrielle turned to look at him as if he had spoken Gobbledegook. Hermione had done this?

"[What with? Not one of the Firebolts, was it? It'll be a Bat Bogey hex worthy of Dumbeldore if it was.]"

"Pardon Blackig," said the old house-elf after a sudden appearance. The creature was still bruised, but closer to his original shape as a result of the numerous splints. "Healer Leistenverletzunger will come."

"[Erm... is that spellotape?]" wondered Harry, looking closely at the placid elf. "[What's he saying, and what happened to him?]"

"[Eh, Soleil, eh, stepped on him. Many times,]" explained Gabrielle. Then, so they did not get the wrong impression, she added, "[It was zat Soleil did not know him.]" More or less.

"[Ib you would dot press so hard, the paid wold not be so bliding, luv,]" hinted George.

"[Eh, what?]"

Healer Leistenverletzunger did finally come, shuffling in unconcernedly. His suitability for the position was further lowered in Gabrielle's estimation when Blackig translated his first question: "What seems to be the problem?" Gabrielle wondered if the house-elf relayed even a tenth of the invective she directed at the insane, demented healer because, for his part, Healer Leistenverletzunger just smiled at her in a pleased sort of way. It sort of made her skin crawl.

The treatment had to be, reasoned Gabrielle, logically, because of his background in the Alchemical Arts. In Wand Arts, one needed, well, a wand. In Alchemical Arts, one needed cauldrons, carboys, stirring rods in glass and silver, mortars and their pestles, knives, condensing coils - all manner of things. So instead of a careful spell and a tap on the nose, like a proper French healer would use, Healer Leistenverletzunger rummaged through the unpacked crates for a leather mask with a dozen straps. The cracked, aging leather had only a hole where the wearer's nose would poke through. Blackig, the house-elf, turned up the small cardboard box containing the nose forms, and the wedges used for customizing the result. Which led to the inevitable: what did George's nose look like before? Everyone had an opinion, even Ron, who showed up without the guilty Hermione.

"[That's definitely a Weasley nose,]" pronounced Ginny.

"[No, George's nose was more, eh, eh, viril,]" disagreed Gabrielle, George's chin in her hand. She did not notice the tips of his ears. Gabrielle was closest to George because, well, where else would she be? Also, she could translate for Blackig, who then translated for Healer Leistenverletzunger. The trilingual back and forth was not efficient, which was unfortunate for the patient since each reshaping involved the use of a mallet for the wedges.

"[Looks good to me,]" opined Harry.

"[Zat is because zis is Ginny's nose. It is too small.]"

"[So my beak's big now, is it?]" smirked George. Gabrielle pinked slightly.

"[Come to think of it, his nose was probably longer. It was always sticking into my business,]" said Ginny with a wink.

"[And more, you know, angled. So's he could look down it at me,]" added Ron, without the wink.

"[I zink a little larger and not so stuck up,]" judged Gabrielle. "[Definitely not as big as Ron's, zough.]"

"[That counts for two and brings us even,]" said George. "[Sticking it into other people's business and looking down it sounds more like your ball-and-chain, Ronniekins. Or should that be rope-and-chains?]"

"[S'your own fault, I'm sure,]" replied Ron.

"[Not one for the rough stuff myself. Know a shop she might fancy, though,]" said George. "[Off to find a knife, do you think?]"

"[She's having a look at the hole with that Professor fellow,]" shrugged Ron.

"[My nose isn't stuck up, is it Harry?]"

"[No, it's, erm, lovely, Gin,]" said Harry.

"Pardon Blackig, mademoiselle. Healer Leistenverletzunger asks if there is perhaps a photograph or painting?" translated the house-elf. "He further invites you to join him for a nightcap this evening. Pardon Blackig, but Blackig thinks you should not go." The insane healer kept winking at her, prompted, guessed G, by her having to close an eye to avoid poking George in his eye. Again.

"[You would tell me, right? Only I couldn't help but notice that little pause,]" noted Ginny.

"Eh, okay," said Gabrielle carefully, not completely sure what a nightcap was. She looked at the old, battered house-elf closely. He was now sweating noticeably and vibrating. If he wore an apron and served espresso at Beauxbatons, Gabrielle would guess that he would soon be throwing up. She did not think the elf's tattered smock was a disguise, though. "I do have a photograph," she told the house-elf. Perhaps the good news would help.

"[What pause?]" asked Harry. He looked askance at Ron, who unhelpfully circled his finger around his ear.

"[Ginny, can you bring my handbag, please? I have a picture of George in it,]" asked Gabrielle brightly.

"[Are you sure? I thought you left your pile of advert clippings home.]"

"[Eh, what?]"

"Pardon Blackig, but... Blackig, Blackig is a Bad Elf!" cried out the house-elf suddenly. He banged his head against the cot quite theatrically, but Gabrielle could see that he mostly hit what little padding there was to the transfigured chest of drawers. An unexpectedly cynical thought noted that the house-elf was also not using his master's language. Gabrielle made to tug George to safety, which, a different, slightly self-conscious thought acknowledged, might look like an attempted embrace. It was, however, a strictly precautionary measure, one that required, since George was bigger and broader, that Gabrielle lean in and wrap her arms around his torso.

Ron snatched up the house-elf by the scruff of his neck, and gave him a bit of a shake. "Ruddy things! Growing up, I always wished we had one, you know, to do the chores. Now that there's one creeping round the Burrow, you wonder why anyone would want one at all. D'you know Mum had to get a load of Ever-Dust just to keep the blighter busy?"

"[Ever-Dust?]" wondered Harry.

"[Yeah. You spread it around, and it makes dust appear no matter how often you clean,]" explained Ginny, prodding the end of her nose.

"[Erm, doesn't that happen anyway?]" asked Harry. He was quite certain it did. Life with the Dursleys had given him experience in the matter.

The crisis over, Gabrielle realized she would have to release George. She had not been able to move him anyway; he had become rather stiff. She now remembered her plan, and whispered, "[I am wearing a skirt.]" Which she immediately regretted, since it was completely obvious, not very clever, and entirely stupid.

"[Not in just a few hours, Harry,]" said Ginny absently. She was looking at her reflection in the glass pane of a cabinet.

"[Here I was, wondering about that bit of kit. Demi-toga, I thought? Micro-sarong?]" said George, rather more loudly than Gabrielle's whisper.

That was a little hard to decipher, so Gabrielle tried a new tack. "[To wear ze skirt, you need, eh, certain things. You see?]" hinted Gabrielle, rather more quietly than George response had been.

"Setzen Sie den Haus-Elf nach unten, wird er in Stücke fallen bereits," requested Healer Leistenverletzunger. No one moved.

"[What, like legs?]" replied George. Then, a little more softly, he added with a leer, "[Did you - want - me to see?]"

Gabrielle felt the blush color her face. That he would say such a thing here, now, out loud! She was glad for the distraction when the house-elf rasped, "Pardon Blackig. Healer Leistenverletzunger asks that the wizard release Blackig."

"[Put him down, Ron,]" ordered Gabrielle. Then, because Ron did not immediately, she waved her hand at him. Did that still work?

"[I could take a look right now. Got my wand right here,]" whispered George, holding his wand lightly.

"[Eh, what? No!]" blurted Gabrielle, rather more loudly than George's threat. Oh mon Dieu, she thought. I should not have worn the skirt - he can not control himself! She looked to the others, desperately hoping that no one had heard or noticed. The others, particularly Ginny, were looking at her. "[Eh... my handbag, Ginny. You can bring it?]"

"[Fetch it yourself, Mel. King Leer will be fine on his own,]" snipped Ginny.

"[Mel?]" repeated Harry.

"Schauen Sie sich diese Schiene - aufgeschnappt in zwei Hälften. Was haben Sie getan, du alter Hund?" asked Healer Leistenverletzunger, prodding the battered Blackig with the mallet.

"[No, I, eh, must translate. You know zis, eh, eh,]" said Gabrielle, totally failing to come up with a ridiculous name for Ginny. It did not help that she startled when she thought something brushed the back of her skirt.

"[I think I'll find Hermione too, Mel,]" said Ginny. "[Come on, Harry.]"

"[Mel?]" asked Ron.

"[Er, I thought I would have her try to do that scrying thing,]" said Harry. "[As long as we're, you know, waiting.]"

It was not anything that Gabrielle did, but since Ginny did not get her way, it was a victory. Mel - what a stupid thing to try.


	24. Clearing Up

Chapter Twenty-four - Clearing Up

The attempt at scrying got off to a slow start. Ron produced the noxious, reddish pillow that belonged to his former pet and was the Guidepost in the Hidden Realm to Wormtail, and greatly annoyed Gabrielle by insisting on repeatedly shoving the gross thing in her face. It was not as if she was ready to do the scrying, since she had nothing with which to do it. That seemingly had not occurred to the boys. How, Gabrielle wondered, did they think it worked? When Ron started with the pillow again Gabrielle sent him off sharply to find a crystal ball, or magic ink. The imperious wave of her hand had definitely helped there. Or was it the kick at his shin? Harry followed him, and the two started poking around in the stacked items.

George was busy fiddling with his metal beetle, poking at what was beneath the wing casing with his wand. Gabrielle frowned slightly at this. He had either regained control of himself while she had been dodging the rancid pillow, or he had only been teasing her before. Replacing teasing with flirting made Gabrielle feel better, though she decided that she had better see about that metal bug.

Healer Leistenverletzunger busied himself with the destruction of a tall stool that looked, to Gabrielle, exactly like the ones in the classroom at Beauxbatons where she had her Alchemical Arts practicals. That seemed a suspicious coincidence. The old healer, who, now that he had removed his wizard hat, Gabrielle could see was very nearly bald, was using the severed legs of the wrecked stool to reinforce the mangled Blackig. The house-elf seemed indifferent to the treatment until the wizard sliced his palm on the splintered wood. Blackig sprang up, disappeared, and then reappeared in an instant and began fussing over the wound with a kit of bandages and jars of ointments. Healer Listen-for-it made for a far worse patient than the elf, and the two began bickering in German over, apparently, who was treating whom. They more or less dragged each other through to the back room.

There was a crashing sound from the far side of the tent, and also a loud declaration that something was 'bloody'. Gabrielle decided that she had time before Ron and Harry returned. She sat down on the cot next to George. She hoped Ginny returned with the handbag and photograph soon; Gabrielle liked his old nose better. Though, really, this one was okay too. If, though, Ginny did not return too soon...

George was intent on the beetle, so Gabrielle slid over until she was pressing against him. It was, of course, absolutely required if she were to see just what was so fascinating under the beetle's wing case. She wondered, briefly, what had happened to the mallet, since George had not even glanced her way. Then Gabrielle remembered what Fred had said about his twin when George was working on something good. So she waited for her chance, and tried to think supportive thoughts.

The problem was that George did not, as far as Gabrielle could see, seem to be working on anything she would call good. He was laboriously drawing letters with his wand onto the beetle's wing, poking each veined pane on the membrane individually to make the shape. She sat through a 'v' and an 'e' before impatience won out over supportive.

"[George?]" said Gabrielle quietly as he began another letter. "[Eh, George? George!]"

"[What? Oh, er, sorry, luv,]" said George, sliding over a little and politely making unwanted room.

Gabrielle looked down at the newly opened, and unwanted, gap between them. Some boys, she recalled from Hermione, needed a billboard; Ron was his brother, so perhaps it ran in the family. Gabrielle slid herself over again, and boldly slipped her arm under his to help him understand. And, added a second thought, to prevent him from escaping. "[What is it zat you are doing?]" she asked. A third thought wondered what sort of billboard was required, having already sneaked into his bed. La la la, thought Gabrielle over the doubts.

"[It's a shopping list for Fred. I need a few things that'll be a little hard to find this close to muggles,]" replied George. He started on the next letter.

Gabrielle understood. Fred must have a beetle-thing as well, and what George wrote on his must appear on Fred's, just as George had gotten a message from his twin before. It all seemed very tedious though. The drawn letters, picked on the tiny panes in the veined wing, reminded Gabrielle of the jagged circles on her friend Philippe's computator, and she had a thought. "[Eh, Philippe, he has a, eh, board wizz many buttons. One for each letter, you see? He can push ze buttons very fast.]"

"[I would have guessed that. Ever hear the expression 'a man of few words'? He isn't,]" said George. He paused to regard the wing membrane critically before continuing.

"[What do you need from Fred?]"

"[Jarvey spleen and the root of a female mandrake, for starters. I can probably scare up the rest myself. 'Specially if there's unicorns around. Magical inclination, you see?]"

"[Eh, I do not know if Hemmor - if ze unicorn is still, eh, near. What do you need from her? I should be ze one to try - she knows me,]" offered Gabrielle. She was confident she could do what was needed, assuming Hemorrhoid could be found, and also assuming that George did want anything from - inside - the creature. Not, of course, that she thought George was that kind of wizard.

"[Thanks, luv, but it's toadstools I'm after. The right kind of, ha, magic mushroom will make things easier.]" All the while George poked with his wand. The mallet, thought Gabrielle. Being jealous of a fake insect, noted a second thought, is pathetic. What happened to the bond their hearts had shared at Fleur's wedding? If all it took was a stupid metal bug -

Understanding came to Gabrielle as dawn brings color back to the way too early mornings needed for the astronomy section of Natural Arts, and clarity came as a mist parting. Or possibly even lifting. He does write; George had stayed in contact with her after she had returned to France. The correspondence had not been as romantic as Gabrielle had hoped for, or even at all, but it was regular contact, if Ally's figures were to be believed. She had, decided Gabrielle, already become part of his life. She was not old enough to marry, he knew that, and the whole, eh, shagging thing was a very gray area too, regardless of what was rumored in the dorms. George was obviously a proper, gentleman wizard who was, Gabrielle concluded, simply biding his time. The evidence was the faux beetle in - her - handbag. Regular contact was intended to become constant contact! With renewed confidence, she decided to go back to her ploy, to play his game. Gabrielle pulled her arm away, then stood up on the cot next to George. The skirt swung subtly as she shifted her weight.

George did not notice. "[There! Let's see Toulier's buttons do that!]" challenged George, turning the wing to where Gabrielle used to be sitting. She could still see the figure; it was an alchemical symbol.

"[Philippe uses, eh, mice to make ze drawings,]" explained Gabrielle. At least, sometimes he did. Other times nothing much happened when he move the little box. Somehow, Philippe seemed to know. George turned to look at her standing, a puzzled look on his face. She set the skirt in motion.

"[Mice? That would explain his wonky circles then. They must have been nibbling at the edges.]" Gabrielle noticed he was looking rather intently at the skirt, just below her hips, and she flushed a little thinking of gray areas.

"[I, eh, zink I should sit on your lap,]" said Gabrielle, and cringed. It was not as subtle a ploy as it had sounded in her head, and there was a little too much squeak to her voice. "[To, eh, see better to work ze bug. Eh, beetle.]"

"[You what? Er, uh... Hey! You're a girl - you can give me a hand with this.]"

Gabrielle knew that she had George this time. She could tell from the momentary fluster in his exclamation. So, she expected as she began to step over him, he would be forced to admit to the prank he had played, and she would win. George would think to himself, 'This is the woman that I can not live without.' Gabrielle did not, however, expect that George would suddenly stand. His upward lurch caught up her leg awkwardly, and she had to hold on to him tightly to avoid toppling. Which was not a bad end.

"[_Impedimentia__!_]" called out an angry voice. The spell hit Gabrielle, but it was George, a brief moment and spark later, that was sent flying backwards into a stack of crates. Suddenly unsupported, Gabrielle stumbled forward, then flopped head-first off the bed with a shriek, making an untidy, and very exposed, pile of Delacour.

"[Bloody hell, Hermione! What'd you go and do that for?]" shouted Ginny, pushing past the bushy-haired witch.

Gabrielle gathered herself up and pushed things back down. She added her voice, and language, to the outrage, "Have you lost your senses? What is wrong with you?" Gabrielle paused - curiously, there was only one of everything now. Unless there were supposed to be two, of course. She brandished the first thing she pulled from the shallow depths of her near-cleavage, but it turned out not to be her wand. The shrivelled claw did not shoot a ball of flame at George's attacker. Now Gabrielle could understand why people kept their wands in the pockets of their denims. The little, blond wand was out next, though. "_Flagrate__Projucio__!_" Fueled by Gabrielle's outrage, the little 'phut' was more emphatic than pathetic. The minature ball of flame that arced out was no more than usual, which was disappointing.

The bright ball was also easily swept aside by its target. Hermione used a shield spell that sent the flames tumbling off to the side. They landed among several strong containers woven from willow which were, unfortunately, flammable. Hermione then disappeared with a theatrical puff of smoke and a yowling screech, and was replaced by a decidedly annoyed looking cat with long, unkempt brown fur.

The fire built quickly with a sickly-sweet smoke. With a pop, the old house-elf appeared, carrying a bucket which contained a rather magical amount of water. This easily doused the spreading conflagration, and Blackig, showing no signs of actual injury, disappeared. He reappeared right in front of Gabrielle and snatched the wand from her hand. With a wag of a finger, he disappeared once more.

"Hey! Give that back!" demanded Gabrielle uselessly, momentarily stunned. She looked around wildly. Hermione had escaped the transfiguration, but was perched unsteadily atop a wobbling wardrobe where, as a cat, she had fled the deluge. George was firing spell after spell at her, and advancing. Ginny was calling for Harry. Gabrielle tried to decide between looking for the stupid house-elf or throwing things at Hermione. The pillow would not much of a missile, though.

"[_Expelliarmus__! __Expelliarmus__!_]" shouted Harry in rapid succession. "[Stop it, the both of you!]"

"It was Hermione who started it," said Gabrielle in George's defense. Blackig was gone, but Gabrielle was sure that he was in the back with the insane healer. Probably having nightcaps and laughing at her, steamed an aggrieved thought. "George, the house-elf took my wand. George!"

The singular Weasley twin did not hear because he was either too intent on shaking the wardrobe or because he could not hear over Hermione's cries for Ron as she tried to stay on the rocking piece. Harry looked like he was getting ready to start shouting also. Since he now held three wands, Gabrielle did not see that as a sensible, or useful, plan. And it would not help her recover her wand from the stupid elf, which was obviously more of an emergency than Hermione's predicament. Gabrielle sidled up to George, and kicked him in the ankle.

It was an effective way to get attention - rude, of course, but effective. Especially after nearly a year in iron footwear, something which Gabrielle had not taken into account. The unsuspecting George went over with a yelp. The wardrobe went over too when he collapsed against it. If there was a sound from Hermione, it was lost in the cacophony as the contents of the wardrobe crashed, shattered, and possibly exploded, finishing with a long drawn out tinkling. It was a riveting spectacle, and it ended the shouting.

"I am sorry!" blurted Gabrielle.

"[Well, Ginevra, might as well get yours in too,]" grumbled George as he rubbed his leg. "[I'm sure I've got nearly two hundred bones left that aren't broken.]"

"[Hermione?]" called Ginny. "[Hermione?]"

Gabrielle knelt next to George. "[Eh, I am sorry. I, eh, needed your help.]"

"[What in Merlin's name is going on?]" demanded Harry. "[Have you forgotten why we're here?]"

"[Don't bother looking for the psychopath here, Gin,]" said George. "[I'll wager a galleon to get a sickle that she used a portkey.]"

"[I am sorry,]" repeated Gabrielle, in case George had not heard. Not that it had been all her fault in the first place.

"[Not as sorry as she'll be once Fred comes through,]" muttered George. He looked into Gabrielle's eyes. "[Et tu, Blondus?]"

"[Eh, what?]" asked Gabrielle. Then she realized, "[Oh, you have hit your head. I am Gabrielle. Eh, 'G' is for -]"

"Gabrielle, d'accord. Mais, pourquoi est-ce tu, er, 'kick' moi?" tried George.

"Tu dis 'donne un coup de pied'," helped Gabrielle, smiling proudly at his attempt. "L'elfe de maison a pris ma baton. Tu m'aidere de le récupérer, oui?"

"[Uh... er, house-elves can be tricky little buggers to deal with. But, it'll do what its master tells it to do, and I'm thinking that old git will be thrilled to please you. Remember old man Winterhall?]" replied George. "[Besides, you have another, right?]"

"[Eh, yes,]" said Gabrielle uncertainly. That had sounded, when it came to the question of help, rather like a no.

"[There you are, you bloody wanker,]" huffed Ron. He struggled into view with the largest crystal ball Gabrielle had ever seen. It was easily wider in diameter than her arm, elbow to fingers, was long and, judging from Ron's red faced, very heavy. "[Help me with this. It's as heavy as a rock.]"

"[More proof that N.E.W.T.s don't mean anything. Quartz is a rock, just like your head,]" said George. He got to his feet, then reached out a hand to help Gabrielle up. This pleased Gabrielle, and she held onto his hand awkwardly. "[Someone say healer. I'd rather not have the Chosen One staring at me with that look on his face.]"

"[What look? What do you mean?]" asked Harry. "[Why would I - I'm not!]" Ron was snickering. The weight of the crystal ball made the cot sag. Why, wondered Gabrielle, would one ever need a ball be that big?

"Pardon Blackig, Healer Leistenverletzunger is indisposed," announced the suddenlt present house-elf. "Please call again."

"Eh, what? He had only a small cut!" argued Gabrielle. "We have the photograph for George's nose."

"Pardon Blackig, but Healer Leistenverletzunger is tired and not at all well. Good day."

"Because of you, I am sure! He was fine before. And give me back my wand."

"Pardon Blackig, mademoiselle, but Blackig is keeping Healer Leistenverletzunger safe and is saying no."

"[What's all the excitement with your girl?]" asked Ginny. She held the handbag. Nearly clutched, Gabrielle's third thoughts noted. The second thoughts were busy noting 'your girl'.

"What? You can not! It - it is not allowed! He must heal George's nose!"

"[I'm pretty sure the house-elf's name is Blackig,]" said George helpfully.

"Pardon Blackig -"

Gabrielle decided that she did remember poor Monsieur Winterhall, and sang out with what she hoped was a seductive lilt, "Healer Listen-for-it! Eh, anger? Healer Listen-for-it-hunger!"

v - v - v - v - v

The healer had come when called. That might have been a Winterhall-like situation, or it may not. After all, thought Gabrielle, she would answer to her own name. Which was why she was ignoring Ginny, who was still trying to call her 'Mel'. Ron had picked up on it also, but Gabrielle normally ignored him anyway. George's nose was back to its handsome, noble form, and that had taken some effort. The house-elf had been completely unhelpful and would not translate for her at all, which meant that she had had to spend a lot of time pantomiming to the ancient wizard. Indicating which wizard in the photograph was George, and whose nose to fix had been easy. Trying to get the healer to order the recalcitrant house-elf to return her wand was impossible. The old fool had turned bright red and had a coughing fit each time Gabrielle had attempted to describe a wand with her hands, trying to show the shape. It was very strange, but she just put it down to him being an old, foreign, and obviously insane wizard. An impression that was reinforced when Healer Leistenverletzunger just smiled happily as she and the others left with the huge crystal ball.

Gabrielle was not as happy to be leaving, mostly because she had not gotten her favorite wand back. She had also not had a chance to pull out her other wand, since that wand, and its alleged metacore, was in her handbag, and Ginny was keeping that for her. Or something.

Leaving also meant returning to the now shared tent, and probably Hermione. And now also the smell, which came courtesy of Fred and his 'RPD', or rocket-propelled dungbombs, one of which George had sent flying into the tent just, as he explained, in case. Gabrielle was not impressed with Fred's ingenuity. In her opinion, one supposed to outgrow dungbombs; it was why one learned little hexes and jinxes. The dungbomb was launched from a sort of short staff which, George proudly explained, also provided a one-time shield spell if tapped on the ground. Ron tried that, and the staff crumbled to dust. "What part of 'one-time' did you miss out on?" asked George when his brother complained.

In any event, Hermione had not been in the common area, where the dungbomb had exploded. Gabrielle, who knew she had a talent for vanishing spells, was glad not to have her wand at hand; it fell to Harry and Ron to clean up the mess. And to use their wands to flick the shrapnel at each other. One - was - supposed to outgrow dungbombs. Gabrielle had always assumed that applied to boys as well.

Ginny had gone to find Hermione. George had as well, with a decidedly malicious gleam in his eye, and another RPD. Gabrielle had a choice, and went with the handbag. She already knew where Hermione was. The worst place for the older girl to be was in Gabrielle's room, finding a certain rude wax replica. Looking back on it, Gabrielle decided to call it a premonition instead of her normal allotment of luck. This was significant because it was not a post-monition - she could See more than the past. Yet another talent! A second thought allowed that, while it was clearly not a 'post-monition', it might have only been a 'now-monition'. Gabrielle carried the internal debate by working out that if she could See something as it happened but was not there where it happened, then she must have Seen it - here - first for it to happen - there - at the same time. Eh, puzzled a third thought, what?

Getting Ginny to follow her had been simple. Gabrielle snatched the handbag away and hurried to her room. Once inside, Gabrielle found Hermione as she had Seen, at least the half of Hermione that was not under the bed. The witch, who Gabrielle had thought of as a mentor, had clearly lost her senses. The issues, Gabrielle noticed, seemed to begin once a person started doing, eh, things that a married person did before getting married. That made the gray area grayer. Gabrielle opened the handbag and found the second wand before clearing her throat very deliberately. She could sense the wand wanting to try the fireball spell, but it was, after all, her own room. Perhaps, suggested a second thought, she should have spent too much of her spare time learning an even slightly more useful spell.

Hermione emerged from under the bed at the sound with a jerk. She had her wand in one hand and the stupid candle in the other. Gabrielle sighed. Now she would have to explain why she had the tallow phallus, and in such a way that made it clear that it was all Fred's fault. Which Gabrielle was at least fairly certain it was. A second thought wondered why she had never thought to burn it. Gabrielle started to protest the violation of her privacy to set the tone, but Hermione jumped in.

"[An just - what - are you doing with this?]" demanded Hermione, a knowing accusation in every syllable.

"You would know better than I," muttered Gabrielle.

"I heard that," snapped Hermione.

"[Will you stop waving that wax willy around? Honestly, can't you think of anything else these days?]" asked Ginny.

"[What? Ginny, this is hers!]"

"[I seriously doubt that, or boys wouldn't make such fools of themselves over Veelas,]" grinned Ginny.

"[Eh, what?]" asked Gabrielle. "[Zat is Fred's!]"

"[Oh, you can tell them apart now?]" smirked Ginny. Gabrielle opened her mouth to speak, but could not come up with anything to say.

"[It isn't funny, Ginny. They lied to us about last night,]" accused Hermione, jabbing the ridiculous candle at Gabrielle.

"[Careful now. Not everyone is used to having one of those in their face.]"

"[There was blood on his sheets!]" hissed Hermione, eyes flashing with anger. This time Ginny was at a loss for words.

"[Eh, yes. But zat will, eh, clean if you use your wand,]" began Gabrielle. "[Ze stupid house-elf has my - ]"

"[Morgana's fanny! You mean you actually did it?]" gasped Ginny in shock.

"[Eh, yes?]" It was not like she had had a nosebleed on purpose.

"[It's not her fault - it's your brother who has to answer for this,]" said Hermione.

"[I can't believe George - she is Veela though, right? A little?]" Gabrielle frowned at Ginny's slight.

"[Veela or not, she's eleven Ginny! He's the one -]"

"[Twelve. I am twelve years old,]" corrected Gabrielle. She was not some silly little girl. "[It was bleeding a little before, eh...]" Gabrielle tried to recall the details of the story George had come up with.

The two older girls quickly looked at the anatomic candle, and Hermione dropped it. "[Eww!]" they squealed in unison.

Gabrielle began to suspect that she had missed something. "[I, eh, zink perhaps I mean no, before.]"

"[Well that's it then. He'll have to marry her,]" concluded Ginny.

"[Oh, eh, of course,]" agreed Gabrielle. She was not sure why her coven sister had brought that up now, but it seemed very reasonable. They would have the wedding at Delacour Manor. There was plenty of room for the Weasleys to stay. Monique would be the maid of honor. Her dress could be slightly different if she was still needing to be One with the trees, or something. There would be no fairies.

"[I don't see how that follows at all; these aren't the Victorian days. I mean, you know Lavender too. She'd be married to half a quidditch team by now.]" argued Hermione.

"[Punishment should fit the crime, though,]" said Ginny. Pranks, thought Gabrielle, will definitely be allowed, especially if they are on Aunt Laurel. Wait, a second thought wondered, what?

"[It isn't funny Ginny. If he was a muggle, George would be facing statutory rape charges. At least. Just because the wizarding world believes a witch can't be raped1 does not mean this isn't serious!]" Gabrielle was stunned by Hermione's words, then outraged. What did she think went on? A second thought noticed the candle.

"[So, what? You plan on killing him yourself then?]"

"[No, I - I was just so angry at the - ]"

"[Ze blood,]" began Gabrielle loudly and with as much Fleur-like disdain as she could muster in case anyone tried to interrupt, "[came from my nose.]"

v - v - v - v - v

Gabrielle sat cross-legged on the bed, stared into the over-sized crystal, and wished she had never gone near that stupid Goblet. If she had not even put in a blank scrap of parchment, would the thing still have been able to choose her? Gabrielle supposed it came down to talent. Talents. It was important to have talent - talents; she had always thought so. Gabrielle knew she had several talents. She could See, both the past and what was only nearly the past. She could also vanish filth and manure at an amazing rate, something that had been required after the second RPD had crashed through the door of her room to strike Hermione. And Ginny. And herself. The vanishing was really not much of a talent to brag about. A handier talent was the ability to have red-haired wizards do what she wanted. The last of the rocket-propelled pranks were safely in her handbag. Which was probably, again, with Ginny, who seemed to think Gabrielle could talk to animals. That is, talk - with - animals, since, really, anyone could talk to one. Gabrielle wondered if Ginny knew that Hermione could talk to her cat. Perhaps that was the reason Ginny thought Gabrielle could have such a talent. Gabrielle considered that the presumption could also have arisen from her speaking to Soleil, and his head bobbing. Ginny probably did not spend much time at stables and did not know that head-bobbing was an Abraxan response to nearly anything one said that did not get a kick. Or perhaps it was because Sauveret, the squirrel that had saved her, was sitting next to her, close enough that his flicking tail brushed her leg. He seemed very interested in the glass also, which Gabrielle found curious. What, in his former forest home, would lead the creature to expect something to happen? Lieutenant Mimsey stood by her other leg, occasionally nibbling at the rancid pillow. The ball was not so mesmerizing that the squirrel did not take cautious glances at the owl every so often. Gabrielle was going to reassure him that the owl would behave, but then that would be Ginny's point.

"[I don't see a bloody thing,]" announced Ron abruptly.

"[No one expects - you - to, git,]" said George. Gabrielle tried not to let the fact that he was not looking in to the crystal bother her. The disassembly of the beetle on her pillow, however, did. A little.

"[I think I know what's wrong,]" said Ginny. Gabrielle only half listened, because thinking of Soleil reminded Gabrielle that she had yet to exercise the Abraxan. He had already been upset by the house-elf; if Soleil thought he was being snubbed too... Also, after flying Soleil it was usually time for 'pune' with Nona. What time was it? The windows in the tent were bright, but they did not show the -

Thwock! The smack on the back of her head startled Gabrielle, and made her jump. Except that she was sitting with her legs crossed, so the jump was more of a sudden flop forward. Sauveret scrambled for the far side of the huge ball, while the Lieutenant flapped his wings and screeched. It was obviously, thought Gabrielle, later than she had been thinking.

"[Ginny, leave off her,]" complained Harry. Ginny? Not Nona? Gabrielle sat up and looked behind her at the red-head holding a ladle.

"[I was just setting the mood,]" explained Ginny a little too cheerfully in Gabrielle's opinion. "[It helps her get started.]"

"[Eh, what? Zat - zat does not - zat is not how it is!]"

"[What about the chanting then? You want some help with that?]" The ladle Ginny held returned to being the hairbrush it had originally been.

"[Madame Sombrevoir does not use ze chanting,]" said Gabrielle airily.

"[I thought the old hag was called Nona.]"

"[Madame Sombrevoir is ze Professor of Divining Arts at Beauxbatons.]" Would adding that she was one of the top students in her class be too much?

"[Are you - at - Beauxbatons?]"

"[Eh, what? Ginny, Beauxbatons is in France. It is very famous; you should know zis,]" replied Gabrielle patiently. George laughed at this, then cursed softly as something went 'ping' and landed on the floor some distance away.

"[I knew that muggle map was rubbish,]" declared Ron.

"[I know where Beauxbatons is,]" huffed Ginny. "[You were using a crystal ball earlier and you were chanting then, right? So why not now?]"

"[It is only for Nona,]" argued Gabrielle. "[It is not needed to - ]"

"[Seemed to work, though. So did the ladle.]"

"[Zat is not needed! Very definitely!]"

"[One or the other then. Come on, Harry's counting on you,]" added Ginny.

"[Am I?]' asked Harry. He looked over to Ginny, received the message her eyes flashed, then continued, "[Er, right. 'Course I am - this is, erm, really important. The fate of the wizard - ]"

"[There, see?]" interrupted Ginny. "[The Chosen One chose you, and your mythical bond with George led us right here. Not going to disappoint them are you?]" Magical, corrected Gabrielle to herself.

"[Eh, no, of course not,]" replied Gabrielle, somewhat abashed at the attention. She knew she had let her mind wander before. They would not think much of her if they found out. That may be, realized a second thought, the entire reason for chanting. Certainly the words meant nothing to her. Gabrielle took the smallest sniff of the filthy pillow, and began to chant quietly.

"[That's it, the mists will be lifting any time now,]" encouraged Ginny.

"[No. Zey will part. You know zis. Ze mists zat hide ze Hidden Realm - ]"

"[I can make another ladle,]" warned Ginny.

Gabrielle decided not to argue - the fate of the wizard something or other depended on her. She settled back and looked into the crystal ball, barely noticing when Ginny took her hands and joined in chanting. Nothing happened for the longest time, and doubtful thoughts began to wonder if the polished sphere was just too large. It was reasonable to think that a small crystal would be easier to use than a larger one. That was even logical. Gabrielle wondered if George had any magic ink in that shirt pocket of his...

Eventually, with Harry chanting as well - which he might have only done to hold hands with Ginny - and with several delicate sniffs of the guidepost pillow, there developed a haze in the very center of the ball. Ron had added his voice too, but briefly and so garbled it might have been another language entirely, subsiding after a jab from Ginny. The haze, Gabrielle noticed, actually seemed to fade more than lift or part. Mentally she tried, 'The mists of the Hidden Realm have faded, and I have Seen.' No, not very dramatic. Not correct grammatically at the moment, either. It should be 'I See', because Gabrielle could See. It was the rat, sitting on its hind legs and looking for all the world like it was thinking very hard about something. The scene was dim, and seemed to be indoors. Perhaps, guessed Gabrielle, the other barn? She leaned in closer to heavy ball.

Ginny spotted her shift. "[You've got something?]" She sounded more hopeful than surprised, an impression that a part of Gabrielle was quite pleased about.

A larger part of Gabrielle was not pleased, but rather alarmed. The rat - was - thinking about something. The rodent sat contemplating a heavy, brass-bound, wooden chest - a heavy, brass-bound, wooden, - familiar - chest. Wormtail the rat was looking at Stanislaw's chest, in Stanislaw's tent. Which was, and this the alarming part, right next door to her tent!

Gabrielle reared back, blurting, "Wormtail is in the next tent over!'

"[You see Wormtail?]" asked Harry.

"[Wormtail is in, uh...]" started George.

"[Wormtail is in ze tent zat is next to zis one!]" repeated Gabrielle. An unexpected concern for her handbag came over Gabrielle, and she snatched it up from where it lay next to Ginny.

"[Which one?]"

"[A la droite! Eh, zat is, ze one to ze right, if you look to ze 'ole,]" answered Gabrielle. Now that she had her handbag, she opened it and brought out Pepi-Z. "Pepi-Z, you can watch for the rat?" she said to him, now letting the bag drop to the bed. She clipped the bobble to her hair.

The act was an island of calm in the sudden pandemonium. Harry, Ron, and George jumped up - George leaving a trail of metal metal parts. Ginny got to her feet as well, and faced a wall of very loud opinion on what she should be doing, which was nothing. Ginny's opinion to the opposite was nearly as vociferous. Gabrielle's expressed opinion, and her best plan, which was outright ignored, was for George to stay with her. She finally got up to get her iron overshoes. The backup plan was to put Soleil between herself and the rat. Gabrielle pulled Ginny after her because two wands were better than one.

1 The reasoning is thus: the defensive magic peculiar to witches that would be provoked is, as judged by wizards, more than sufficient to either prevent the heinous act or punish the actor. Therefore, for the alleged assault to have taken place, nefarious dark magic must be at work, and let's just see that wand, lad, eh? The Unforgivables are just that, generally speaking, and carry the highest penalty already. This is why the incident between Tibault and Natuche was so disturbing - those sort of spells at that kind of age.

Even muggles are dimly aware of this potent defensive magic, and refer to the belief in it as 'vagina dentata'.


	25. Wormface

Chapter Twenty-five - Wormface

Harry Potter stood by the side of the tent and watched his best mate fumble with his wand. "[Come on, Ron!]"

"[Yeah, yeah. That little nutter better be right - I'm almost out of this stuff.]"

"[I don't think you have to use so much,]" said Harry. Not that there was much at all in the tiny metal tube.

"[Merlin! Couldn't find a better time to polish your wand than now?]" griped George, rolling his eyes. "[Either of you know an anti-apparition ward? Harry?]"

"[Er, well, I've, uh, read Dunpoppin's -]"

"[That'd be a no then?]"

"[What about you?]" asked Harry sharply. He had never tried casting the ward, but he did know one. In theory. Harry thought that he might possibly even know many, if what George had told him about Voldemort and the Tower of the Mind was true.

"[Missed out on that year, didn't I?]" shrugged George.

"[Should we find 'Mione?]" asked Ron. He swished his wand back and forth vigorously.

"[Why? One homicidal wizard, or witch, at a time is enough to deal with.]" replied George.

"[Look, I don't know what set her off this morning, but I'm sure it was your - ]"

"[Quiet,]" interrupted Harry. "[You do have the, erm, thing, right?]"

"[Yeah. 'Course. But...]" started Ron, looking a little sheepish.

"[But what?]"

"[Well, my wand arm is my throwing arm, innit?]"

Harry looked at the willow wand held in Ron's hand, knowing full well the effects of the muggle glue. It would take the better part of a half hour to get it out of his hand, unless Hermione was angry with him. Then the process took a lot less time, though Ron would also not be able to use his hand much at all afterwards. With the morning upset, it would not take much to goad her, which Ron was a natural at anyway, but it was time they did not have. Besides, Ron still needed to be able to throw. Harry sighed; the throw probably did not have to be that accurate.

"[One of us should try and apparate once we get inside,]" suggested George. "[A really short hop, so there's almost no chance of splinching.]"

"[Why?]"

"[What ever did Mad-Eye do with you gits? We won't have cast a ward, but we need to know if Wormtail cast one,]" explained George.

"[Oh. Er, good idea,]" said Harry. The time spent with the old auror had been packed with drills and lectures and, all right, ravings. How much more was there? "[I need to get close to him anyway.]"

"[Don't be daft, Harry,]" warned the older Weasley. "[It's two and a bit against one- ]"

"[Sod off!]" snapped Ron.

"[We'll spread out - if he doesn't apparate we should have him,]" continued George.

"[And if he does?]"

"[It's a bit of a puzzle, but if you think a bit, it'll come to you,]" hinted George. Harry tried to see where ex-beater was going with that, but could not. He hoped that it did not show, or was at least less obvious than Ron's creased forehead.

"[Or not,]" sighed George, shaking his head in mock despair. "[It's simple - Wormtail was here first, right? How would he know about this hole, ha, thing, that he would come here? Was he waiting here for this lot to start digging, or did he just see them?]"

"[Erm...]"

"[He'll apparate to the farm, or to the forest. Both are where you'd expect to see rats,]" said George flatly. "[The farm'd have the better food.]"

v - v - v - v - v

"[Say it again, Ginny. I zink he did not, eh, believe you,]" urged Gabrielle. She stood just off to the side of where Soleil's massive hooves were crashing down, trying to calm the colt as he attempted to intimidate Ginny. The unruly Abraxan had pushed through the gate of the stall when Gabrielle had tried to enter, and was making quite a spectacle of himself. A very loud, violent spectacle.

"[Oh my paws and whiskers,]" said Ginny. She waved her hands over her head, which did not look, to Gabrielle, like fright so much as if Ginny was fending off a cloud of Razor midges. "[Doesn't he remember? It's only been since the morning.]"

"You see Soleil? She is very afraid, yes?" tried Gabrielle. Soleil spread his wings and half-reared, and that was a tell. The social world of the herd was full of such perfunctory challenges. Except for Montaigne, who always seemed to mean it. Soleil did remember the redhead; he just wanted a more demonstrative act of submission. Gabrielle doubted that Ginny would be so accommodating, especially now that the older girl knew what was in the dust outside the stall. And did it really count if she had to be told?

"[Let's go back. The others might need help.]"

Gabrielle considered that the others actually might need help, but could not see what sort of help she could provide. She did have the rustic-style wand, with her Grandmere's hair at its core, but it was becoming clear that setting small fires, or even larger ones, for which she had already apologized, was seldom considered helpful. The best she could do against the rat, or the wizard who was the rat, was to have Soleil stomp whichever he could find. But that could only happen if she could wrest the colt's attention from Ginny.

That, Gabrielle knew, was actually easily done. Soleil reared again, kicking out with his hooves. It was still a perfunctory challenge, just a very emphatic one. She simply stepped in front of the winged palomino, so that when the hooves thudded back down and the huge muzzle was brought low, Soleil faced her instead of the target of his ire. She had crossed her arms across her chest, not comfortably but in the way her Maman would have them. Maman always looked like she was trying to keep her hands occupied, so they would not go off and throttle, say, someone who had just shattered the good crystal ball that that someone knew she was not supposed to touch, ever, even for just a minute.

Soleil's bellowing trailed off into a nonplussed snuffle, and he folded his wings. In the moment that the colt had reared, Gabrielle had hit upon the best plan yet that did not involve having George here protecting her. Which made it a distant second, really. Rats, she recalled, could not fly. Wizards could, with a broom of course, but barring quidditch training she doubted that they would be able to out-fly Soleil. Not only that, but if she were on Soleil she would be nearly invisible, provided either Lieutenant Mimsey or another bird was used to cover the diadem.

Gabrielle liked her idea. Hiding in the air was much better than hiding on the ground, in the stall, since what they were hiding from was also on the ground. Also, the air would be, eh, fresher. There was also a lot more choice if they had to flee; the stall only had one door. She smiled broadly at the colt, and wondered if Maman would ever consider having an Abraxan at the manor. Papa would, of course, at least promise.

"[Blimey that's scary,]" commented Ginny, who had come up to stand behind Gabrielle.

"[Zen why did you not, eh, show him? Zat is all he wanted,]" complained Gabrielle. Soleil's large eyes flashed annoyance at Ginny effrontery. Gabrielle quickly turned back to him. "We will go flying now. That is much more fun, yes?"

"[I meant you.]"

"[Eh, what?]"

v - v - v - v - v

Severus Snape, having carefully observed his environs, concluded that he stared out at the dullest muggle farm he had ever seen. Now, under a carefully cast Disillusionment charm and halfway across the field, the farm remained completely uninteresting. The tents were slightly more interesting. They seemed a normal sort of tent; he had seen similar colorful canvas at muggle beaches. And, of course, at events like the Quidditch World Cup. What few individuals that could be seen were dressed like muggles, either because they were such or because they were being cautious. Snape, however, felt certain that the cluster of tents gathered around the large hole was the work of wizards. The continued lack of large, metal mechanisms was part of the evidence he was judging. The more decisive bit was the appearance of a huge, winged horse, an Abraxan. Snape had not gotten to see them often when the creatures had arrived at Hogwarts, but they were as easily remember as the dragons. The giant animal nearly burst from its stall when the gate was released by what seemed to be a first-year student. Snape became alarmed.

Not for the safety of the blond child. The tree of wizardkind was often self-pruning; may as well have done with it early. Prior to Dumbledore's posting as headmaster that might have even been Hogwarts' unspoken policy. No, it was the child's older companion that gave him pause. Her hair was red, Weasley red. That was not conclusive, of course, but Potter had somehow known that Wormtail was in Albania, and now here was a witch with the same build and hair as the Weasley daughter. Snape could see that she stood nervously, ready to flee as the Abraxan reared and neighed. The probable presence of Potter made the situation more difficult, though not for the pathetic Pettigrew. Snape could not see a way for the rat to survive much longer. The Dark Lord was determined to find a mythical wand before confronting Potter, but he also wanted something that was valuable enough to him that he came personally to collect it. If the boy had Wormtail, and, therefore, potentially this valued item, what action would the Dark Lord take?

Severus Snape watched as the Abraxan reared again and spread his wings. The young student seemed completely oblivious to the danger of flailing hooves, appearing to speak to the taller redhead. A budding careerist for the Ministry, thought Snape.

The Dark Lord, considered the wayward Death Eater, would not risk a confrontation alone with Potter with as many wizards around as the peculiar encampment might hold. He would need to gather supporters to his side for an assault, which would take time. The Dark Lord's plans would also need information, and that would, noted Snape with a touch of satisfaction, allow an opportunity to steer events to some small degree. Information was decidedly more important than the erstwhile rodent, which meant that Snape could move closer without feeling compelled to actually help the useless rat.

v - v - v - v - v

"[All right then,]" whispered George. He stood by the far side of the tent flap. "[On four. One, two - ]"

"[Four?]" wondered Harry. Ron was just behind him.

"[Go!]" hissed George. "[Watch your eyes.]"

"[What?]"

The three burst in through the tent flap, Harry now last, and tried to spot Wormtail. It would have been simple if the insides had matched the outsides, but that was rarely the case in the magical world. Harry remembered that he was supposed to try to apparate. How short, Harry now worried, was short enough not to splinch? It was too late to ask now. He decided to try and reach the small table that was there in the middle of the room. Destination, determination, and deliberation - Harry turned to apparate. Nothing happened except for a sudden, shrill cry from outside the tent; certainly he did not feel splinched. There - was - a ward in place, which would hopefully make trapping Wormtail easier. Ron was pointing to where a man-shape was rising, next to the chest that Delacour had described. The insides of the tent turned a blinding white, like the flash from a thousand flashbulbs. There was another scream from outside.

When Harry could see again, George was sending blasting curses under the furniture, which was quickly becoming the remains of the furniture. Ron was rubbing his eyes and also cursing, just not with his wand. Wormtail was gone, or probably, a rat again. There was a spell that could force an animagus to revert to human form. Harry added it to the list of spells he did not know, and wished they had waited for Hermione. A movement just at the edge of his seeing caught his attention. It was Wormtail, scurrying for the exit and unseen by George. Harry whirled around, "[_Reducto__!_]"

The spell missed Wormtail, but not by much, tearing the tent flap off and sending the rodent flying. Ron was after it immediately, firing stunners at the tumbling animal, and missing. Harry followed George out, and wondered how far the Anti-apparition ward extended, if at all. Ron was nearly on top of the frantically, zigzagging Wormtail, who was fleeing away from the camp. Unfortunately, this prevented Harry and George from casting spells themselves. The rat finally threw itself to the side and became Pettigrew, the silver hand closing on Ron's neck.

For a brief moment anyway. Then Ginny, inexplicably, and with a shout, dropped out of the sky, flattening both wizards and knocking them back some ten feet.

"[Ginny? Ginny!]" shouted Harry. Her name echoed from a distance and higher, both in pitch and location. Harry rushed forward.

Too late, however. Pettigrew, his face bloodied from a cut, staggered to his feet, this time with his metal hand clamped around Ginny's neck and his wand at her throat. Ginny struggled weakly. "[P-Potter - Harry. Ron. What are you - No! No. That's far enough,]" warned Pettigrew.

"[Let her go!]" demanded Harry.

"[Cancel the ward and I will,]" said the former rat forcefully, though he was now sweating nervously.

"[It's not our ward,]" replied Harry. He took a step closer to Wormtail, just to see what the rat would do.

"[Stop right there - I - I'll do it.]"

"[But what then? You can't get away, and you can't kill me. You - owe - me,]" challenged Harry.

"[Yes, that's right. You helped me, we're all friends. It's like a family reunion,]" blathered Wormtail as he took a half-step back. Ginny lifted her head.

"[Yeah, a reunion. Except for my dead Mum and Dad, who you betrayed,]" said Harry flatly. "[Ron? Throw it to Ginny.]"

Ron lobbed the pink object toward the Death Eater and Ginny with his off-hand. It was a poor effort, really, but Ginny made a motion to grab it.

So did Wormtail, whose silver hand now closed on what appeared to be a small pink ball, just beyond Ginny's fingertips. "[Really now, is all - ]" As Wormtail's hand grasped the ball, there was a clap of thunder as if lightning had struck. Free, Ginny threw herself to the ground then rolled up onto her knees. Wormtail stumbled and fell to his knees too, holding his arm, his mouth working soundlessly. Blood fountained from between his fingers. His silver arm was gone, leaving nothing but a shredded, bleeding stump that he was desperately squeezing just before falling flat on his face in a faint.

"[Not even a squeal. Very disappointing,]" critiqued George. "[Wondered why you wanted that.]"

"[Oh Merlin,]" groaned Ginny. She moved unsteadily to Harry. "[What in the bloody hell was that?]"

"[A prank, Miss Weasley, if you would, for once, use your eyes. The blood sprays, but does not reach the ground.]"

"[Snape!]" barked Harry, turning quickly to face where the voice had come from. This unbalanced Ginny, who had his arm, and made any attempt at using his wand nearly impossible.

"[Please, enough with the theatrics,]" sighed Snape, mostly for the effect. He cancelled his disillusionment and pointed his wand at the fallen Death Eater. "[I suggest that you take care of that. Now.]"

"[I could make it reach the ground and puddle up, but it would be an extra six sickles per piece,]" informed George. His wand was pointed at Snape. "[We're committed to the budget-conscious prankster. Or so our Powered Points say.]" Pettigrew moaned and stirred.

"[Ron?]" prompted Harry, his eyes focused solely on his former professors face. But not quite the eyes.

"[Yeah, all right,]" said Ron, purposefully nudging Snape as he passed. "[_Stupefy__!_]" He then bound the once more unconscious Wormtail in conjured chains.

"[What do you want?]" demanded Harry.

"[No threats? No curses? I can not be that far down on your list,]" taunted Snape.

"[Piss off, you greasy git,]" snapped Ron. He pulled the prank from Wormtail's intact arm.

"[Finally, some of that renowned Gryffindor wit. I will gladly take my leave, but I will note two things. Do, please, pay attention. The first is that the Dark Lord summoned that miserable excuse for a wizard to him not long ago, and a mere mile or so from this very spot.]"

Snape paused then, and studied Potter's face. The close proximity of the Dark Lord had no ill effect? "[The second is that the wretched rat lost whatever item he was supposed to obtain. The Dark Lord will come looking for it personally, I suspect, though I doubt he will be alone.]"

"[Why tell us?]" asked Harry mulishly. "[What do you hope to gain from this?]"

"[Minimal carnage, perhaps?]" said Snape. He stepped back from the circle of wands, somewhat surprised that he had not had to block even a single curse. But then, they did have Draco, and Granger was unaccounted for. The potions master recast the Disillusionment charm, and took to the air with the flight spell. Only Harry followed his drifting flight.

"[_Stupefy__,_]" cast Ron again. Harry turned back to the fallen wizard, setting aside the question of what spell Snape had used to actually fly. That was kind of neat, even if it was a Death Eater spell.

"[Was he coming around?]"

"[Nah,]" grinned Ron. "[But we'll have to watch him. He'll just go back to being a rat if he does wake up. We should find Hermione. She knows lots of ways to tie you, er, people up.]" He was bright red.

George, after he finished laughing at Ron's discomfort, asked, "[I live the staid life of a simple shopkeeper, unused to such excitement, so I'll ask. Ginny, how is it that you dropped out of thin air?]"

"[Well,]" began Ginny.

v - v - v - v - v

"[I thought you'd be more, umm, soft. You're pretty dense. I mean solid,]" complained Ginny, shifting around again. "[I can barely feel my legs anymore.]"

"Fly over the forest a little, Soleil," requested Gabrielle, doing her best to pretend Ginny was elsewhere. "I wonder if the unicorn is still near." The Abraxan responded by banking into a gentle arc. Gabrielle knew that he was doing that because she was not wearing the tether. Part of her was quite proud of how well-behaved the colt was; another part was disappointed in the dull flight.

"[You're absolutely sure we have to do this, right?]"

"[Oui,]" sighed Gabrielle in exasperation. "[Zat will not become different, even if you ask again and again and again.]" It was a simple enough concept. She and everything she rode while wearing the diadem would be invisible. Logically, something that was quite beyond Ginny, that meant that Ginny had to be under her. So Gabrielle was sitting in Ginny's lap as they flew over the expedition and fields on Soleil's broad back. It was not comfortable at all, because Ginny kept fidgeting.

"[Still doesn't make sense to me.]"

Oh mon Dieu, thought Gabrielle. I should have left her in the tent. Soleil would have been enough protection. She tried to see through the trees, but because she was sitting in Ginny's lap, who in turn was sitting between Soleil's huge wings, Gabrielle really could not see much of the ground below. It was not much fun. "Do you see the unicorn, Pepi-Z?" A tug for no.

"[I mean, the reins and that thing for his head are invisible, right, and you don't have to sit on them.]"

"[You have said zat already also. Ze bit of ze - halter - is in his mouzz. Zat means zat it is part of him,]" explained Gabrielle patiently. Ginny had, Gabrielle had to admit, initially stumped her with that observation.

"[Doesn't he come with a saddle or something?]" Ginny shifted her legs again.

"[Non,]" said Gabrielle. This could be construed as the truth, instead of the lie it actually was. The saddle was difficult to put on Soleil correctly and was far too wide for her, or even, Gabrielle suspected, the taller redhead. Gabrielle could have explained this, but with Ginny it was easier to say no. "Soleil! Let's go back over the stupid hole and you can scare them again." The wizards and witches working below could not see him, but his ringing challenge would make them jump. That was funny.

"[But you don't talk to animals,]" teased Ginny as Soleil swept into a slow turn. This could be, thought Gabrielle, the worst flight ever.

"[You should tell him zat you are - aah! Aieee!]" Something suddenly burned Gabrielle chest, and she pulled at her top, attempting to get whatever it was off her skin.

"[What's wrong?]"

"Il m'a brûler! Ah! Ah! Aieee!" Gabrielle shrieked again as the burning came back, and now there was smoke coming from her blouse. It was like an ashwinder egg down her front; it even hurt her hands when she try to hold it away from herself.

Soleil, who understood in some simple way that he was responsible for Gabrielle's safety, turned toward the shrill screams to see what was happening. To look where one was flying is also to fly where one is looking, so the colt's powerful wings snapped his flight into a tight spiral. Gabrielle snatched at his mane, and clung to the Abraxan as the colt whipped around - the metric ton! Ginny snatched at Gabrielle, and clung to her skirt, but only briefly as it, and the redhead, dropped away.

v - v - v - v - v

It was not as if Gabrielle did not care what had happened to Ginny, it was just that by the time she had climbed back onto Soleil and gotten him flying calmly again, Ginny was on the ground and obviously still alive. Her sometimes coven sister was alive, but in the grasp of that, eh, Rattail. Even with Soleil there was not much that Gabrielle could do to help her, though Gabrielle knew the colt might enjoy the kicking. Besides, Harry Potter was right there. And, her chest was really hurting. Then, as she circled the wizards below, the rat-wizard's arm exploded. The bleeding, mangled stump brought the horrific events of the previous summer vividly, graphically to mind - the awful witch in the alley and how her head... Oh mon Dieu! She had to get away! Gabrielle pleaded and begged her mount to fly back to the stall. The Abraxan, possibly taking into account the clear panic in her voice, swept in low over the expedition's tents and did not even try to topple any of them.

The mystery of the burning was solved very quickly in the privacy of Soleil's stall. At least, the mystery of what had burned her. The stupid amulet from Nona, the silver medallion, had been responsible. Gabrielle was very sure of that, since it exactly matched the charred, blistered patch over her sternum. A cautious fingertip sloughed off a crisped layer. It should have hurt more than it did, and Gabrielle expected that it would do so very soon. She needed a healer - any of the ones in Paris would be perfect for her. Especially the one who specialized in fixing scars. But, thought Gabrielle morosely, that was not possible without a portkey from Papa. She would have to see the insane healer in camp. He would certainly enjoy treating - this - injury. The fact that Ginny had managed to pull off Gabrielle's skirt only made the thought of going to Listen-For-It-Hunger even more nauseating. He would definitely insist on nightcaps. Thinking of the lost skirt, Gabrielle wondered how she could even get to the infirmary tent. She did not have the apron, and unless she could find something smaller than Soleil to ride, smaller and less, eh, excitable, she could not use the diadem. The healer's tent was on the other side of the hole. Even if she ran, someone would be bound to see. If only the black undergarment was not so sheer...

Gabrielle realized that she was being stupid. Probably due to shock. I am, thought Gabrielle, a witch. She pulled out her wand and tried to find a clean patch of straw. A lot of Wand Arts had been spent on thin wooden boxes, and straw was kind of like wood. It was nearly the same color, for instance. She expected it would be easy to fold the scattered straw into a box. She would not even have to worry about the bottom, nor the top. Tops were hard; points were deducted if the fit was poor. Especially if one's professors held a grudge. Gabrielle could then use the box in place of the skirt.

Except that the wand was not Gabrielle's favorite and it did not seem interested in the spell. Squinting, so that the individual straw things blurred together, helped, but the box-like result still crumbled when she tried to pick it up. Gabrielle also learned that a good way to aggravate a burn on one's chest was to wave a wand around uselessly.

Inspiration came in the form of a kitchen utensil - thwock! Nona's cottage was close by, thought Gabrielle, and she could at least borrow a blanket. The crone would probably be angry that she would be late for 'pune', but surely even Nona would see that the injury needed treatment. And anyway, concluded Gabrielle, it was Nona that had forced the amulets on her in the first place. Of course, reminded a second thought, the one for the vampire had worked out well.

Gabrielle made her way to Nona's door with an odd, sideways gait. She thus kept her back to the hole and the rest of the camp, holding Soleil's feed bucket behind her. It covered the parts that the lost skirt no longer did. Holding it as she did stretched the blistered, raw wound painfully, and she was forced to rest twice, squatting behind the bucket to wait for her watering eyes to clear. The amulets were stored in the bucket in case they went off again.

Nona was not alone. That was not unusual or even important, except that Gabrielle was in a rather exposed state. She could have managed to conceal herself, by keeping Nona between herself and the curious eyes or by pressing herself against the wall and using the bucket to conceal her lack of modesty, but Nona pulled her forward into the cottage. The bucket was taken from her, and then the blouse. Gabrielle would have fled if she could have, or at least complained, but found she could do neither of those things. Instead, she turned pink and expected to die of mortification as the black ShieldWear was slid down her arms.

The other occupants of the room were a woman and a girl. No - corrected Gabrielle's second thoughts, two woman, since the younger woman looked to be even a couple of years older than herself, and she was not a silly little girl anymore. Present circumstances notwithstanding. The young woman might have been Lucretia's older sister, since they shared the same tastes in clothing and makeup: black. The older woman had dark hair held back with a band, wore a severe gray dress, and had Aunt Laurel's usual expression on finding Gabrielle wanting on her face. Gabrielle was not sure what came after voluptuous, but whatever it was would apply here. She thought of Monsieur Lunky, the leather-worker on Knockturn Alley, and George's description of the man's wife. Huge bazoobas or something.

The younger woman was also quite ample. They could be related, but Gabrielle did not see any strong family resemblance. Except in the chest area, which was a little of a disappointment for Gabrielle so far, and which was emphasized by the current lack of cover. Why, she wondered, could she not move? She knew a Pretrificus spell when she was hit with one. Nona had to have a wand somewhere. There was something one was supposed to do to break out of the spell...

Nona, muttering in Albanian, stepped back in front of Gabrielle and provided some needed privacy. Gabrielle glared at her, but what was the point? The old witch took no notice of the level two Look because she was spreading a thick black - Well, Gabrielle hoped it was a proper healing ointment or medicinal paste, but it really looked like a sticky tar. The application hurt as well. Gabrielle could not cry out, but tears could still fall. Why was it necessary to cover half of her chest with it? The burns were bad, but small.

The sticky mess was followed by a yellowed plaster smelling slightly of flowers and more strongly of what Gabrielle hoped was really, really not cat pee. She was relieved to find that it did not hurt when Nona pressed the plaster onto her chest, because that meant that the tar was a medicine instead of just glue. The last second gob of saliva from Nona was neither. Just gross. Gabrielle was even more relieved when the sheer black bodysuit was pulled back up. It now, unfortunately, had two holes in it.

The blouse was in considerably worse shape; the holes were larger and ringed with scorched material. It was one of Gabrielle's too, not something Maman had purchased. A clothing crisis was developing. Nona tossed the ruined item aside and moved to rummage in a chest. She returned with, if one only judged form and paid no attention to fashion, a dress. The simple frock was dirt-brown, ugly, and very obviously too large when Nona pulled it over Gabrielle's head. The younger woman giggled something to her older companion, hiding her mouth behind her hand. Nona circled Gabrielle repeatedly, adjusting the way the dress drooped off her shoulders and sagged at her hips. Gabrielle could not see the point of the effort, as the dress would fit her like a hideous brown tent no matter which side it was pulled to.

Except that, quite abruptly, the dress did fit, more or less. Gabrielle doubted, though, that it looked any better. She wanted to ask her taskmaster if she could also change the color of the garment - perhaps a robin egg blue - but she still could not speak. Nona returned to stand in front of Gabrielle, this time with the amulets. She held the weird claw in one hand and dragged the dangerous silver medallion across it with the other hand. After the third stroke the claw closed on the treacherous tab of metal and curled around it protectively. The combined amulets were then hung around Gabrielle's neck and tucked into the collar of the dress with a sigh of disappointment from Nona. "Sempre," she reminded Gabrielle.

"You never showed me that!" complained Gabrielle out loud. She had not expected to be allowed to speak, and regretted the outburst. Nona had saved her, possibly, or at least immediately, from the insane healer, so the polite thing to do was to be grateful. Tempered, added a peeved second thought, by the fact that the old witch had made her wear the amulets in the first place. "Also, eh, thank you, of course. For the, eh, healing." Not for the saliva.

"Bëni çaj dhe ne do të fillojë, fëmijë."

"Eh, yes." That was something about tea, so Gabrielle assumed that she was supposed to make a pot of it. Behind her, Nona moved a barrel to the table. Gabrielle wondered what was going on. Clearly it was not preparation for the midday meal, but the two woman, or woman and a girl, did not look like Nona's normal customers. The girl had been downgraded in Gabrielle's estimation for too much whispering and too much obvious giggling. Nona put a folded blanket on the barrel, which meant to Gabrielle a session of Seeing, and the crone put the better crystal ball on the table as well. But, noticed Gabrielle, the blue tablecloth was not used. This was, she decided, very strange.

v - v - v - v - v

"[_Stupefy__!_]"

"[Ron,]" said Harry in an annoyed tone. "[Leave off, will you?]" He and the others were back in the large common area of the shared tent.

"[Wot? 'S not like we've decided what to do with him.]"

"[Yeah, but that yellow stuff leaking out of his ears can't be good. Anyway, we might've come up with something if you'd help.]"

"[We can only do magic, Harry. That'd take a miracle,]" noted George.

"[Like you've been a big help. 'Watch your eyes',]" growled Ron.

"[Anyway, what's wrong with Tankelheim's Self-Cinching Net? Very useful if you send goods via muggle transport.]"

"[Well, I can see how that would work to hold him if he tried to turn back into a rat, but, er, he couldn't really answer questions then, right?]" said Harry. "[And wouldn't it just keep tightening when he breathed until, erm, he couldn't?]"

"[Only one way to find out,]" grinned George, raising his wand.

"[No,]" insisted Harry. The older Weasley put on a hurt face.

"[_Stupefy__._]"

"[Ginny! Not you too. I just got Ron to stop.]"

"[Sorry, Harry, but my neck still hurts a bit, and I've just realized that that bastard has seen me in the all together,]" explained Ginny. "[Back when he was running around as Scabbers.]" There, thought Harry, was a stomach-turner.

"[Why do we need to ask 'im anything?]" said Ron around a ham roll. His stomach was not turned. "[It's obviously in that chest he was bent on.]"

"[What is this it that is supposed to be in that chest?]" asked George.

"[Just, erm, something of Voldemort's,]" said Harry vaguely.

"[Yes, you said as much already. Got to be more to it than that, though. He was willing to have a go at you when you were still in your nappies, so nicking a trinket isn't going to make him change his mind about you.]"

"[It's none of your business,]" argued Ron.

"[Oh yes? This is the thanks I get for leading you lot halfway across the continent in both safety and style? Little Ronnie has always been an ungrateful lout, but I expected better of you, Harry,]" complained George. Harry could not really tell whether the older Weasley was upset or not.

"[Look, it's a secret, one that Dumbledore didn't even tell the Order,]" added Ginny.

"[I can tell it's a secret, dear sister, because you won't tell me what it is,]" said George. "[Me! Your own flesh and blood and greatest sibling. And Harry's one short walk between rows of chairs from being family too. Or at least the 'intent' is there.]" George paused, then narrowed his eyes. "[This isn't like that diary, is it? Oh, for Merlin's sake! You're going to have to do better than to suddenly give each other meaningful looks! I'm right, aren't I? 'Course I am - bloody genius, if I have to say it myself.]"

Harry wished that Wormtail would start twitching again. He could use the distraction. "[Yeah, all right. It's, erm, a bit like the diary.]"

"[What's it do, then?]" prompted George.

"[Do?]"

"[What's the point of coming all the way out here unless this mysterious item was actually going to be used somehow? You really are pants at this.]"

Or maybe, considered Harry, the Weasley twins were just a bit sharper than most other wizards. At least when they were apart. Harry had to wonder if they would have made it at all without George. And, they had found Wormtail straight away, which was amazing. "[It, er, sort of... holds him together?]"

"[The glue pot of evil? The Unforgivable Spellotape? Wait, don't tell me - it's You-Know-Who's hairy heart?]" guessed George.

"[No, nothing like - wait, what? His hairy heart? Where in Merlin's name did that come from?]" asked Harry. It was easier to change the topic than to work out how much to give away. He rather suspected that George would work it all out no matter what Harry told him.

"[It's from that book of fairy tales. You know, 'The Warlock's Hairy Heart', 'Babbitty Rabbitty', 'The Three Brothers'. Mum must have read them to us a million times. Your Mum -]" said Ron before stopping himself. "[Sorry, mate,]" he mumbled.

"[Well done, Ron. Treacle's like water compared to you,]" said Ginny. "[Go and find Hermione. You know, someone actually useful.]"

An awkward silence fell, broken only when Harry stupefied Wormtail again. He was almost certain the man had moved, a little, and Ron's slip had been a reminder of all he had lost. Harry found himself willing Pettigrew to twitch again.

v - v - v - v - v

Gabrielle slipped into her tent intending to collapse onto her bed after what she had decided was an unanticipated and particularly grueling Divining Arts practical. She and the older girl had spent what felt like hours taking turns at the crystal under the watchful, judgemental eyes of the older witches. The older girl, whose name was Marmelle, that was at least how Madame Bazoobas, who was never properly introduced, addressed her, was quick to get the crystal to show something. Gabrielle's efforts took longer, but were clearer and more vivid. And were mostly about cats, due to her grounding in the sensory humours and the unfortunate plaster. She learned, though, that the late Madame Chouisse's cat was - called - Mumum. Gabrielle had always thought the kindly old witch was just clearing her throat.

Gabrielle was also able to do some proper scrying as well, the ladle being used only once or twice - no more than a handful of times. That was easily matched by Marmelle, though. She seemed very pleased about her efforts, or about who had needed the ladle. The dark-clad girl was taken aback, however, when Gabrielle was 'encouraged' into the chant used during seances.

It was all bone-wearingly exhausting, and Gabrielle was looking forward to her bed. Which is why she did not see Ginny in time, who bowled Gabrielle over as the redhead ran past looking green in the face. The floor was not her bed, but Gabrielle decided that it was closer, so she just lay where she fell. She was not hurt, just numb with fatigue. Harry Potter, even with her eyes closed Gabrielle knew it would be him, leaped over Gabrielle's prone form in pursuit. That reminded her of the cold chill descending upon her in Nona's cottage, and her second prophecy.

There once was a girl from France,

who found herself a beau at a dance.

Splintered soul, rat and toad - for Harry,

or end of the world - quite scary!

Much worse than having no pants.

Which, now that it replayed in Gabrielle's head, did not sound like a proper prophecy at all. And splintered did not make any more sense than spinster. Why, wondered Gabrielle, were these in English anyway? Was there, perhaps, a way to put in a polite request to change the spirit one channelled? Perhaps department at the Ministry?

Harry passed by again, looking upset. Gabrielle decided that he was very upset, since that explained why he did not take notice of her. Ginny was hanging off Harry, and now looked very pale. She did not notice Gabrielle either, but then she did look like she would have trouble standing on her own.

"[So... This means the Dark Wanker isn't happy?]" said Ron, nodding to his sister.

"[I'm all right now,]" quivered Ginny.

"[I hate that that happens,]" said Harry.

"[Din-oop. Nin nin nin enk pog.]" This was a stranger's voice, and stranger language, that Gabrielle did not recognize.

"[Bit of an improvement, but I don't think you've got it quite yet,]" critiqued George. He had, thought Gabrielle, not seen her arrive, or the dress was so ugly that no one could look at her directly for long.

"[Well I am sorry. I'm doing the best I can, but you needn't have gotten your wands up into his ear canal,]" said an exasperated Hermione. "[I'm sure the effects will wear off; I just don't know if it'll be this month!]"

"[Dar dar dar keen-do hop hop. Hop.]"

"[_Stupefy_.]"

"[Keen-do hop hop, eh? Well now,]" commented George thoughtfully.

"[Ronald Weasley! If you've undone all my spells, I'll - no, I - won't - ]"

"[Keep your hair on, woman. We already know where he thinks - it - is. What else do we need to know? And I don't really want to hear from the rat, ever.]"

"[Did that actually mean something to you?]" asked Harry, sounding hopeful. Gabrielle realized the strange voice must have been the rat-wizard's. He was not dead? Even, even after the arm?

"[Don't be daft.]" Gabrielle frowned. She would have thought that George would be able to sense her presence. Especially if she was just laying there on the floor this time and not wearing the charmed apron.

"[Well what are we going to do with him now?]" demanded Hermione. "[This is just like the Malfoy situation all over again.]"

"[No it isn't.]"

"[Hang on mo',]" started Ron. "[Why can't it be like Malfoy? I mean, with the potion and all?]"

"[First, that particular potion takes rare ingredients, two of which are on the restricted lists. Those won't be easy to come by at the local muggle markets. And it takes ages to brew,]" explained Hermione.

"[I don't mind helping,]" said Ron. In a slightly deeper voice, noticed Gabrielle.

"[That'll double the time it takes,]" whispered Ginny.

"[I don't believe that I am familiar with the 'Malfoy situation',]" noted George.

"[Ah,]" said Harry. Gabrielle decided two things. The first was that the floor was not that comfortable. The second was that, potion or not, Wormface was not going to stay in - her - tent. There were limits to hospitality, after all, even if Professor Festeller had been the one to extend it. Nona had many barrels - he could stay in one of those. Gabrielle got to her feet.

"[Ah,]" imitated George. "[Another secret, not to be shared with your most capable and trustworthy ally?]"

"[Load of bollocks,]" snorted Ron.

"[Hey!]" exclaimed Ginny. "[I nearly forgot. Gigi's had a prophecy.]"

"[What?]"

"[She, she has?]"

Gabrielle turned to the doubting Hermione. "[I have had two, if you want to know.]"

"[Are they both about Harry?]" asked Ginny.

"[Eh, ze second, it was, eh, more to tell Harry ze first.]"

"[Prophecies come with reminders? Like one of those charmed study guides the insufferable swots use?]" asked George. He had not risen to greet her. He is, thought Gabrielle with a small sigh, completely hopeless.

"[Organization is a key to success,]" said Hermione, half to herself.

"[Not the sign of a mind clinging to the last facade of sanity?]"

"[I've seen your workshop! You sort potion ingredients by size, wings by what side of the beetle they came from.]"

"[What is this prophecy?]" asked Harry without much enthusiasm.

"[That's just to drive Fred mad.]"

"[Well, it was her first one, and she... sort of... can't remember all of it,]" explained Ginny, which Gabrielle supposed was meant to be helpful but really made her sound like an imbecile. "[I thought Hermione might know a memory charm or two.]"

"[Why? Because I'm an insufferable swot?]"

"[No, because you actually paid attention in - Oy, where are you going?]"

Gabrielle turned back. "[I am going to change out of zis, zis, eh... zis.]"

"[Why - are - you dressed like that?]" asked Ginny at the very same time George said, "[You look fine.]"

Gabrielle gave him a small smile, but had no doubt that she would not be relying on his sense of style. A second thought made her smile wider: Papa always thought Maman looked very nice, no matter what she wore. It was a sign of affection! Of course, Maman always did look very good. "[I will not be long.]"

Gabrielle was just inside the door to her room when she heard Ginny wonder, "[Why d'you suppose she smells like a cat box?]"


	26. What Is This?

Chapter Twenty-six - What Is This?

Gabrielle sat with her eyes closed, wondering if she should be feeling any different. Hermione was on her third memory enhancement incantation, a variation of Johann Memonisch's seminal work. Since she had only read that in passing while researching (expand!) on why her cheering charm had gone so terribly wrong, Gabrielle supposed that she did feel different. Fuller perhaps, though it was the Greek warlock Canthuseecles that had proved that thoughts had no weight. That came from a book that Gabrielle had merely opened to hide behind when Lucretia had been in one of her moods. The recollection of the warlock's gory experimental method was very vivid.

Gabrielle was back in slacks, even though these were sporting new holes from the unicorn. The skirt was lost out in the fields somewhere, and the slacks fit her best. Which is to say they were the tightest. The stretchy green top also matched well, except that at the moment it would be stretching around the lumpy plaster instead of the toned results of the metric ton. That was not a good look, so Gabrielle chose one of Ginny's old blouses that she had been given. The garment was pretty but not exactly form-fitting.

The plaster was definitely a problem, and the reason it took slightly longer to change than Gabrielle had promised. She considered, at first, trying to remove the wadded cloth stuck to her, but worried about being left with the tar-like stuff underneath. And, the possible excruciating pain if she pulled the both plaster and her skin off. The not quite faint smell of cat was not helped at all by the spritz of perfume. It was a muggle concoction, and the only reason that she had it was because Maman and Fleur did not know about the clear little bottle. Gabrielle liked the scent, which was to her the way that flowers would smell if they were made of candy. Unless she used too much at one time, in which case her mind's eye saw inexplicable hulking stands of pipes and gleaming metal tanks. Unfortunately, what scented the air now was the way flowers would smell if they were made out of candy and doused in cat urine. Gabrielle convinced herself that that was at least marginally better, and, at the last moment, quickly pulled her metal beetle out of her handbag. She would have George show her how to send messages.

The beetle's wing, Gabrielle now very clearly recalled, had a crude arrow and numbers displayed on it, which she had worked out was pointing to something. George had been using his beetle - again - when he had dropped the pink water balloon on her even though she had been wearing Mrs. Weasley's apron. Using her talent for logic, Gabrielle decided that there was a very good chance that her beetle was showing her where George was, as his did her. That was not as romantic as George being guided to her by the power of their love, but it was very sweet. Because it was George - otherwise that would be a little creepy, like Allie and her notebook.

"[Oh Merlin, I think that was one too many,]" sighed Ginny. "[The cauldron's gone out.]"

"[Eh, what?]" asked Gabrielle, coming back to the present. Were they making the potion they had mentioned earlier?

"[Do you have one that'll make her pay attention?]"

"[Ginny, this is why no one who isn't stupid uses memory charms before an exam. If you can remember everything, then it's difficult to remember any - one - thing; you're constantly distracted by memories of trivial details,]" explained Hermione.

"[And you are telling us this now?]" Irritation tinged Ginny's question.

That did not make sense to Gabrielle. If one could remember everything, then surely it would simply be a matter of picking the right memory. She was, for example, remembering all the times at the Burrow when George had made room or left a space for her to sit next to him. That was not the case now. George sat on the narrow sofa with Harry and Ron flanking him, while she was in a wingback chair with Ginny and Hermione staring down at her. The seating arrangement might have been Hermione's doing, or it might have been the result of Soleil's haphazard nibbling. The way her hair had looked each time she had been next to George came instantly to mind, and every image was very far from its current disheveled state. She wondered if she would be allowed a few moments, far from Ron, to fix her mangled locks. Or at least change them, as the hair spells could be tricky, though right now she was sure she would know them perfectly. She was still without her favorite wand, which the lunatic house-elf still had. Gabrielle definitely recalled, quite clearly, asking George to help her. Was he really not going to do a thing about it?

A better memory than of hair or of sitting next to George was the one where she lay next to him as he slept. The remembered feeling of where his hand had inadvertently landed was again extremely vivid, and sent a tingle down Gabrielle's spine. A smaller hand passed in front of her eyes.

"[Are you all right? You're looking a bit feverish,]" said Ginny, peering into Gabrielle's face. The room did seem much warmer to Gabrielle, but she nodded. "[This is ruddy useless.]"

"[Why don't we try asking her directly?]" suggested Hermione. "[Focusing is the problem.]"

"[Right, good idea. So, Gigi, do you - ]"

"[It is Gabrielle. You know zis. You have never, ever said my name properly. I am certain of zat.]"

"[What?]"

"[You have never said my proper name,]" reiterated Gabrielle. And, she thought as the incidents played in her head, Ginny had also been very rude, many times.

"[Well, you've never used my given name either, and you don't hear me whinging on about it, do you?]"

"[The prophecy?]" reminded Hermione.

"[Mais, tu - Eh, everyone says you are Ginny! Zat is how it was when we met.]"

"[I like being Ginny. You don't like Gigi? How about going back to Beebee? Or Nibbles, for your hair?]"

"[Nibbles!]" snorted Ron. "[I like that.]"

"[Zis is anozzer time you are being rude! First, zere was - ]"

"[Stop it, the both of you. You're acting like immature first - er, never mind that,]" scolded Hermione.

"Je suis dans la classe de cinquième!" declared Gabrielle. Nearly in the fifth class, at least. "Et j'ai gagné deux Encours et trois Dépassé les Attentes!"

"[She's forgotten how to speak - we're in for a bloody great row,]" noted Ron as Ginny and Gabrielle bickered. "[I've got five galleons on there being blood.]"

"[I'll take that wager,]" grinned George. "[Spells count too, just to give you an edge.]"

"[You caused Mum no end of worry, getting hurt stupidly.]"

"[Yeah, all right,] said Ron uncertainly. "[That's the way Nibbles!]"

"[It is you zat made her worry, going around without ze, eh, eh, knickers!]"

"[Can we please get back to the prophecy, Ginny?]" asked Harry.

"[ - and zen you took it and hid it - ]"

"Ce sont de paiement très bon, beaucoup bien," interrupted George. "[Quite good marks indeed.]"

"[Oh! Eh, eh - zank you, of course,]" flustered Gabrielle, derailed from her tirade.

"[You bloody cheat!]" hissed Ron.

"[You never wrote that you were doing so brilliantly,]" soothed George with, objectively judged, a smarmy smile. Gabrielle, despite her best efforts, blushed furiously. She was not judging objectively.

"[Sweet Morgana, I think I'm going to be sick,]" moaned Ginny.

"[Eh, I, eh, did not want to, eh, jinx myself. You see? If you, eh, say your score before ze end, it will not come as you want,]" explained Gabrielle. Exactly seven upperclass students had warned her of that Beauxbatons' hazard.

"[That must have been hard for you, being a Seer and all,]" crooned George smoothly. The fading blush reversed itself.

"[Well that's done my stomach now too,]" announced Hermione.

"[And these prophecies! What's that one Ginny wants to hear?]"

"[I have some mushrooms from Iceland,]" remembered Gabrielle. George had needed some for his plan. "[Zey have white, eh, spots. Silvain sent zem.]"

"[Oy, you've got competition,]" whispered Ron theatrically.

"[Shut up and go fetch my galleons,]" said George.

"[I, eh, put him in ze toilet when he was a fish. I zink I should have flushed him.]" Gabrielle realized that she was babbling, but with all the memories crowding her head, some had to be let out.

"[So, he does write, this Silvain?]" asked Ginny innocently, though her grin suggested another intention.

"[Harry will cover me.]"

"[I'll what?]"

"[Come on, luv. What was the prophecy you told Ginny?]" asked George, leaning forward as if to hear better. To hear better, and to ignore the others. Gabrielle matched his posture, because it brought her closer to him, but there was still too much of a gap for... well, anything.

"[Go on, you've got enough to splash out,]" said Ron. "[It's Ginny's fault, anyway.]"

"[I don't. Your Mum and Dad have most of them, and the Firebolt took the rest,]" admitted Harry.

"[Ze splintered soul approaches wizz youzz reborn, wizz a darkness once stopped by purity horn. He seeks what ze rat hid and the simple, eh, eh, stoat stole, and ze power of destiny for evil goal. His servants at his side, he holds neez-zair's full heart. One repays ze debt; ze ozzer's lost at ze start,]" recited Gabrielle. She remembered the words perfectly; she just wished she remembered why it was important that no one found out about Poisseux. Were the memory charms failing already? Or was there just too much in her head? She needed to empty herself a little. "[Ze mists zat hide ze Hidden Realm have, eh , parted, and ze spirit spoke zat we had met once and zat I, eh, am a 'fine witch'.]"

"[I'm not spotting you a knut, Ron.]"

"[That's fine if you don't want to be paid back.]"

"[How is it my fault?]" asked Ginny. "[Oy, I thought there was a toad in there somewhere?]"

"[It is splintered also, and not spinster,]" responded Gabrielle. That was not a lie, so it could be said even with Ginny watching her face. It was good that Poisseux was confined to the handbag. Which, Gabrielle remembered suddenly, and anxiously, lay open on her bed, dropped in the rush.

"[Very mystical,]" judged George, sitting back. "[Or should I say mist-tical? What's it all mean, do you think? I mean, the rat's obvious, yeah, but splintered? And all that rubbish about horns and purity?]"

"[I missed it, haven't I?]" realized Harry. "[Ron, you ruddy ars- Erm, can we go again?]"

Gabrielle stood up. "[Eh, I remember zat I need to take care of somezing in my room. It is important.]"

"[More important than your prophecy?]"

"[Sit down. Ginny can take care of it, whatever it is,]" said Hermione.

"[I'm not one of your prefects that you can order around, you know.]"

"[Broke Mum's heart that, after Ron had made it and all,]" added George sadly.

"[No! Not Ginny!]" blurted Gabrielle. "[Eh, zat is, it is rude to, eh, have guests clean.]"

"[You want Hermione rooting through your collection of naughty candles?]"

"[Eh, what? I have no idea what you are talking about.]" Gabrielle avoided all eyes as remembering, vividly, the candle brought to mind, also with perfect clarity, the incident with Ron last summer and every single one of the woodcut images from her Grandmere's little book, even the fourth devotion. She fought for composure. "[I will not be gone long.]"

"[Yeah, I'll go along to make sure of that,]" said Ginny. "[You were forever in the loo, messing up - er, around with your hair.]" The redhead stood up also.

"[Zat is not - ]" started Gabrielle. She was going to say that it was not necessary for Ginny to help her, but her off-again coven sister was already heading for the bedroom. An unbidden memory of how Ginny had gone after the locket flashed through Gabrielle's mind. She decided that Ginny was never going to listen, at least not to her, so instead, Gabrielle ran. That was sort of a talent as well, and she was already past the older girl before Ginny started sprinting after her.

"[I've not lost yet,]" grinned Ron.

v - v - v - v - v

The face of the boy was oddly passive, given the seething rage of the man inside. A rage that had little to vent itself upon, and so was useless. He, Lord Voldemort, the last wizard the world needed, required Snape. If for no other purpose than to torture the unspeakably inept Wormtail through the Mark. What an utter waste of magic the - no, not the man. It was conceivable, even likely, that the true form of the buffoon - was - the rat, and it was the rat that was the animagus. Manimagus, as it were. A bark of laughter escaped his lips. The youthful pitch of the outburst hid the bitterness behind it. He had, the Dark Lord knew, expected Wormtail to fail. Lord Voldemort knows. The intent had been to reveal the strengths and weaknesses of the camp. Instead, fumed the Dark Lord, Wormtail had fallen into Potter's hands and had, according to Snape, shown that thorn in his side where the prize lay. The body of the boy and the essence of the man turned to look at the trees of the wooded hillock. They were anemic compared to the ones of the Forbidden Forest; probably had been cleared several times for farmland. There was nothing worth destroying.

"[My lord?]" began the potion master. He had risen once more, slowly, to his knees. The Dark Lord had taken the news badly.

"[Power that the Dark Lord knows not - it is an inconceivable idea, Snape. The so-called Chosen One just has a surfeit of good luck - damned, blind, sodding luck,]" denigrated the Dark Lord. "[That is not true power, and knowledge, complete knowledge, can obviate luck.]"

"[Yes, my lord.]"

Lord Voldemort stared down at his servant. The bowed figure was not as far down as he had once been, but the current vessel the Dark Lord used still had a growth spurt or three to go. In the pause, the Dark Lord could feel his mind filling in the details of an intricate plot, seeing the web of deceit needed. The Cup had stronger protections on it than had surrounded the Locket, so there was still time for -

Unless, reconsidered the Dark Lord, his hands clenching around his wand in fury, a ridiculous series of highly improbable circumstances allowed Potter to defy him again. The sallow skin of the potion master was - Now there, thought the Dark Lord, was an idea. Luck was normally fleeting, and was only good or bad when in contrast with another's. For Potter's luck to run out only required that he, Lord Voldemort, have better luck. And that luck could be brewed. "[Felix Felicis, Severus. You know this potion?]"

"[Of course, my lord.]" The words were calm, but the flush of affront at the implied questioning of the potion master's knowledge was detectable. Lord Voldemort knows. There was something else, though.

"[But?]"

"[It can not be brewed under these circumstances. The sparging of the base elixir requires particular glassware, and must begin on the last day of the new moon. It must remain utterly undisturbed for thrice-seven hours,]" explained Snape. "[That assumes the rather extensive list of ingredients were available.]"

"[You know others capable of brewing it. A standard challenge for accreditation, I recall. It could be... acquired.]"

"[That is one of the selections, yes, but recent events would tend to suggest that no witch or wizard has a supply at their disposal,]" said Snape dryly. And rather boldly, thought the Dark Lord. "[Slughorn claimed to have brewed a cauldron-full two years ago, but demonstrated no proof of its efficacy.]"

Time and resources, grumbled the Dark Lord to himself. Always time and resources. A Time-Turner would solve this problem, but, as blasted luck would have it, Potter had shattered those years ago. He looked at the wand in his hand. While quite good, it just did not have the power of his former wand and certainly not that of his future wand. If it could be done, he would summon a whirlwind of Fiendfyre large enough to engulf the camp and then pick the Cup from the smouldering ruins. It was an abomination that there was a limit to the magic he could do; Lord Voldemort was the magic.

The Dark Lord focused on his servant still on bended knee, and sighed. "[I shall require three owls.]"

v - v - v - v - v

Gabrielle sat in the chair in her room. There was not much choice about that - she was tied to it. While she had been faster than Ginny, she had not been faster than the redhead's wand. Even then, it had been a close thing, since the first spells had been fended off by George's gift, sparking away harmlessly to the walls. It was the low bench that has erupted from the floor that had done it.

Poisseux hung by his leg, stuck to the mirror by a Sticking charm, the ornate golden trophy still held stubbornly in his mouth. Ginny had used the zombie toad as a handle. Her free hand she had actually held in her own mouth; Gabrielle had seen the marks left by her teeth.

Ginny, Gabrielle concluded, was insane. Still insane, a second thought recalled. The unprovoked assault was aggravated by this invasion of privacy and theft. Kidnapping too, if you included the spellotape amphibian. These were then followed by Ginny soothing Gabrielle's barked shins and fixing Gabrielle's mangled hair. Gabrielle was not so much speechless as incapable of speech due to a close-range Silencio, but what could she ever say to this turn of events?

"[Hmm... It's a lot better evened off, but not much. No wonder you went with the beads,]" considered Ginny. Insane and rude, thought Gabrielle. "[It just sort of lays there, you know?]"

Gabrielle did know, but that was what hair did. Her hair, at least. Fleur's hair was far more animate, flowing and shimmering nearly on its own.

"[Let's try curls, shall we?]" Gabrielle immediately thought no, but then wondered if that was only Maman's opinion.

The hair of a full-blooded Veela is not, to be precise, actually hair at all, and is an important element in their transformations. It is never cut, nor styled. When the Veela concentrates, his or her hair is, for the intended target, essentially perfect. Gabrielle, having only a quarter of Veela heritage, did not manifest this ability strongly, or even at all compared to her mother and sister. Gabrielle's Aunt Laurel always said that Gabrielle had her father's hair, though Gabrielle's hair had always been as blond as - No, nearly as blond as - Well, blond. Things that are magical, however, have a way of holding onto that power, until an event occurs that can release it. A latent magic. Usually the trigger is something that the magic does not like. To summarize, Ginny's spell did not go well.

"You pig-headed English idiot! You have less brains than Sauveret and he is a squirrel!" mouthed Gabrielle silently, uselessly. She threw herself against the conjured ropes, rocking the chair.

"[Oh Merlin! I - I don't know what went wrong,]" said Ginny in a voice reduced to a whisper by the horror. As if, fumed Gabrielle, that was any sort of apology at all. Not that she would accept one so easily! Gabrielle would have tried to eviscerate Ginny's self-esteem with a Look, but that would have meant opening her eyes. Since she faced the mirror, that in turn meant that she would have to endure the sight of Ginny's handiwork again. It was too much!

Gabrielle's hair was curly as an ocean was a puddle. Every single hair was tightly coiled, and every single hair did its best to fly away from her scalp in its own direction. She had not looked much different after Fred's shocking package, it was true, but her hair had at least been its normal texture. She looked like she had a yellow puffball on her head, like a gigantic, blond version of Pepi-Z was trying to eat her head. And it was all Ginny's fault, which made it really unfortunate that Gabrielle had already used up all of the Poot powder EXP.

"[Er, yes... I - Oh, I should probably get Hermione,]" admitted Ginny after several more spells, one of which left the distinct odor of scorched hair lingering in the air. Then, to Gabrielle's utter astonishment, the older girl left. Gabrielle risked the sight of her own head to verify that. Ginny had simply left - left Gabrielle tied to a chair, left Gabrielle silenced, left Gabrielle alone with Poisseux and his teething toy. Ginny also unknowingly left Gabrielle alone with the aforementioned Sauveret, who now came tail-flicking his way across her pillow, behind which he had been hiding. That, came a fastidious thought, would soon be Ginny's pillow.

Speech was still not possible. When Gabrielle cast the Silencio spell, it only lasted a few minutes at best. She knew Fleur's could last for hours. So Gabrielle reached out with her mind to communicate with the eternally nervous squirrel. This was done by staring at Sauveret, then toward Poisseux, then at Sauveret, and then again toward Poisseux. She did this until the squirrel finally skittered to the edge of the bed - the sheets would be Ginny's too, schemed Gabrielle, until she remembered what the redhead and Harry had probably been up to on their's - and jumped onto the vanity.

A second thought wondered why freeing Poisseux was the first priority when Sauveret's teeth could be gnawing at the ropes, but it all came to nought when the forest creature turned and headed back toward her. In his mouth was her hairbrush.

v - v - v - v - v

"[The bruise is gone, but it still bloody hurts,]" complained Ginny. Her shoe and sock were off and she was running her wand over her freckled skin. "[She's a menace! I think my ankle's broken.]"

"[It isn't, and you brought that on yourself,]" admonished Hermione.

"[I didn't.]"

"[You tied her up and did - that - to her hair, and you didn't think she might get a little upset?]"

"[Why isn't it working?]" asked Harry. He had tried the spell that George had shown him three times now, and the gold cup looked the same as ever. The spell was supposed to make an object with a soul trapped in it glow or something.

"[I thought it was brilliant,]" noted George. "[Try aiming next time, mate.]"

"[Yeah, an' can I just say that no girl is going to find that a compliment if you start by falling to the floor laughing?]" advised Ginny. "[I can't believe you can even get a date.]"

"[Oh, that part's easy enough. Magnetism and all. Not getting stabbed - that's been the tricky part.]"

"[Aim? I'm right on it.]"

"[How can you tell if you did have a broken ankle?]"

"[Ginny, you were walking on it before. It isn't broken,]" repeated Hermione. "[And there's no point in that, Harry. Even a wizard would hide the one thing that made an object unique.]"

"[Oh, er, that makes sense,]" said Harry. He kept his wand ready though. He did not like the way the toad was eyeing him. "[How can we tell if this is really Hufflepuff's cup?]"

"[Apart from the distinctive markings, the goblin-wrought handles, and that Wormtail is here, there's the fact that Ginny turned it up,]" replied Hermione. She faced her well-thumbed copy of "Hogwarts: A History" toward Harry, showing a portrait of Helga Hufflepuff. On the table she was posed at was the cup. "[Professor Festeller and his team should be able to verify that.]"

"[Just to be clear, that actually - is - You-Know - yes, yes, all right - Voldemort's hairy heart?]" asked George.

"[I didn't find it, Nibbles did. Those ruddy metal galoshes of hers...]" muttered Ginny, still massaging her ankle. Harry wondered if he should offer to help. There did not seem to be any swelling, but if Ginny wanted something rubbed then he was certainly game.

"[Metaphorically, I suppose, yes,]" said Hermione. "[On that topic, why is it that the heart is hairy? Is that important symbolism, representing societal estrangement?]"

"[What a peculiar thing to say,]" started George. "[A still-living, beating heart outside a bloke's chest? It would get cold, right? Stands to reason it would grow an aorta of hair.]"

"[Yes, that's right. Cold-hearted; socially withdrawn. It is symbolism,]" nodded Hermione.

"[I don't think it is.]"

"[Where's Ron gotten to, do you think?]" asked Harry, more to stem hormonal, and other, surges as he imagined other areas that Ginny might like to be rubbed. "[I should have gone with him.]"

"[Don't worry about Ronnikins,]" assured George. "[He'll be fine and we'll be rid of Wormtail as long as he doesn't mix up the Weasley Wildfire Sky-Scorcher Supreme with the Weasley Wildfire Door-Knocker Hollywood Addition because -]"

"[Hollywood Addition?]" wondered Harry. He was now certain that he should have gone with Ron, and equally glad that he had not.

"[Ask Fred. It's something like muggle zombies compared to real ones - bigger and flashier, of course, instead of drippier and,um, lurchier. Anyway, I did mark them with - oh dear. Ron does know his goblin numerals, does he?]"

v - v - v - v - v

It was well after the evening meal when Gabrielle ran out of places to be. Other than her tent. Nona did not need help, or, more likely, did not want Gabrielle's help. There had been a small, well, not a discussion because of the language barrier, but a... contest of wills, during which Gabrielle had made it very plain to the old crone that she would not be seen in public with her hair like that. Nona had understood, or, a second thought supposed, merely relented. Especially since it was clear that the unnatural 'sproing' of Gabrielle's hair helmet reduced the ladle to a bare annoyance. That Nona was irritated at having to serve the meal herself was obvious - the interior of the cottage darkened noticeably and even the round barrels seemed spiky.

But then, recalled Gabrielle, the Albanian witch had been acting peculiar all afternoon. First, it was Nona who had made the tea, and set out a cup for herself and one for Gabrielle. Strongly spiced and overly sweet, layered dough blobs were offered, and there was not even a hint of a customer. Gabrielle took the smallest of the haphazard pastries, and saw the strong, brown hands belonging to her as she ran them through the drying pods. A cloud redolent with spice enveloped her. Her young son Golpol sat and played in the dust nearby, for which he should have received a scolding. But as he drew animal shapes in the baked dust, Golpol sang of Lord Shiva in a voice like the flitting saulari made human. No one could stay cross when little Golpol sang, and that included Gabrielle.

Unfortunately, hearing the lilting spiritual from the child meant that Gabrielle had not heard Nona, who was looking pointedly at the now half-empty plate. Gabrielle reddened, and would have immediately apologized, but her cheeks were stuffed with sugared dough. She tried to chew and swallow unobtrusively. Nona put the remaining lumps on a barrel next to the table and as far from Gabrielle as could be managed. Then, sighing, the old witch spoke at length. Which was just five or six sentences, but it was more than Nona had ever said to Gabrielle at a time. It was, naturally, all in Albanian, and did not seem to involve tea, cabbage, or that she should pay attention. So Gabrielle was quite at a loss as to what it all meant, except that she was probably not in trouble. When she had finally swallowed enough to look up and try to say something, Gabrielle found Nona's dark eyes waiting for her. The dour old woman was not angry, or annoyed, or impatient. She seemed... satisfied. Gabrielle found that, frankly, more unnerving. Nona then brought out a small, very small, crystal ball and pushed it across the table to Gabrielle. The witch then made shooing motions with her hands, which either meant that Gabrielle was to take the orb or that the cottage was full of pigeons that only Nona could see. Gabrielle had picked the crystal uncertainly, but before she had decided that it had to be a gift and should thank Nona, the usual piles of potatoes had appeared between them.

The oddness continued when Nona had, while Gabrielle was busy slicing potatoes, and the occasional finger, tried to smooth Gabrielle's hair down. That had been completely unexpected, and vindicated Gabrielle's view. If even Nona, who wore the same dark clothes everyday, could tell how awful it was... Nona had even resorted to her most ancient and powerful magic - spit - to try and tame the wild locks. Disgusting as the unexpected, and ineffective, application of saliva had been, the act bolstered Gabrielle's stubbornness when it came time to serve the evening meal.

Having been curtly dismissed from the cottage, Gabrielle went to tend to Soleil. That was certainly a private place to go. The big Abraxan was put off by her new hairstyle as well, mostly because the springy mass tickled his nose when he tried a nibble. The sneeze of an Abraxan is much like the animals themselves - very big and very loud. The explosions did not stop Soleil from trying for what a very annoyed Gabrielle felt were dozens of times. The colt was beginning to kick the stall's walls in frustration toward the end, so Gabrielle made her excuses to leave. Not that she expected Soleil to understand, of course! She had had enough mucus for the evening, and needed to clean up.

There was an owl waiting for Gabrielle when she returned to her the entrance of her tent. The bird was one of the big Ministry owls, so Gabrielle assumed that the wrapped bundle it dropped on her was from her father. She also assumed, hoped, that whatever was inside was not fragile, though it was certainly hard. Head protection was the singular advantage to her stupid hair. The owl's delivery was at least a bright spot to the evening, as long as the package did not include a mirror. Or more useless zlotys.

The owl post was a surprise, and the tent held another. That was Abby, who, Gabrielle instantly noticed, was sitting next to George. Very, it seemed to Gabrielle, next to George. They appeared to be discussing a length of parchment on the low table pulled up in front of them. Except calling it a discussion would be generous, since George's contributions, from what Gabrielle heard as she approached unnoticed, again, were all permutations of it, here, and on. Abby was going on about Gleasson Aparati. Was her voice breathier than usual?

George, Gabrielle was glad to see, looked up first. "[Hullo, luv. Missed you at dinner.]"

That brought a smile to Gabrielle's face, and allowed her to completely ignore the shocked look on Abby's face.

"Gabby-rel! You - you changed your hair," blurted Abby. "It, ah, it looks -"

"It was not my fault! It was Ginny's spell that went wrong," explained Gabrielle. She subtly emphasized Ginny's responsibility by saying her name twice as loud. "[Hello, George. Eh, where is everybody?]" She glanced at the parchment. Gabrielle surmised that it was a diagram of a Gleasson apparatus based on the snatch of conversation she had heard and the curling lines that might have represented easily crushed brass tubing, but the image was almost obsucred by lines, arrows, and arithmancy symbols drawn on top of it.

"[Off to talk to that Professor fellow. What have you got there?]"

"[Oh! Eh, it is a crystal ball, of course. Nona, eh, gave it to me,]" replied Gabrielle, holding the glass out. Why the witch had given it was still a mystery. A second thought wondered if he had meant the post.

"[Huh. Means I'll have to bathe in the dark, of course,]" winked George. Gabrielle's jaw dropped and she blushed. She had forgotten that George had caught her scrying him. And she had not been planning that at all!

"[I am sorry! I was, eh - It was, eh, for practice,]" sputtered Gabrielle in a rush.

"What did he say?" asked Abby, a slight, or possibly imaginary, edge to her voice.

"Eh, what? Eh, he, eh, made a rude joke, an English joke, because I have the crystal ball," replied Gabrielle. That was true enough. "Does this mean you got the new feed-into horn?" Gabrielle pointed at the parchment. She hoped that would be enough to distract Abby.

"In-feed horn. Yes, but how did you - Ah, yes, Herr Sammlermacher must have told you," deduced Abby. "It's still not resonating strongly." She smiled toward George. "George here has been sweet enough to try and help come up with a fix; I tried most of these already though. Don't tell him that!"

Apparently, thought Gabrielle, Abby's relationship with Pietre was not resonating strongly either. She stole a calculating look at the older girl. If they were to be rivals, then Abby's advantages were a shared interest in Gleasson thingies and her being old enough to actually be in a conventional, narrow-mindedly defined relationship. And, also, hair that was not capable of scaring small children. But then, Abby's disadvantage was a complete obsession with curled brass.

"Oh, I nearly forgot. Professor Festeller needs you tonight." Abby turned back to Gabrielle. "You can find him yourself; it's the second tunnel on the left."

"Eh, what? I can not. My - " Gabrielle nearly mentioned her ruined hair. She had her hand on her head, but decided that as an excuse it would sound stupid. "My head hurts - I have a headache."

"I think you have to - you are only a student, after all."

"I do not! What if there is another vampire?" argued Gabrielle. Only a student! "I, eh, don't think Professor Festeller knows what he is doing."

"What? He's brilliant! He's discovered so much about how magic was used in the past. At just this site, he's uncovered evidence of - " enthused Abby before Gabrielle interrupted.

"The Master of Time?"

"Well, no. But he has found signs of experiments with portals. That's a kind of magic circle that -"

"I know what a portal is," said Gabrielle sharply, vexed. 'Signs' of experiments? Did Stanislaw not tell the professor about her vision? If she got in trouble with Festeller again because he did not, then, well, there would be many more galleons for her, vow or no.

"What are you to work?" asked George is lightly tortured French.

"[Zere is a magic circle or somezing. Zat Festeller wants to kill me with it,]" accused Gabrielle. Probably not intentionally, Gabrielle had to admit, but he certainly did not seem to care if it were a possibility.

"[More of that curse-breaking you wrote of? Brilliant!]"

v - v - v - v - v

Gabrielle entered the chamber at the end of the second tunnel on the left for the second time. The first time she had been accompanied by George, who professed interest in both the proceedings and the Gleasson apparatus. Abby, of course , had come too; her interests were really the rebuilt device and anyone - George - who cared about it in the least. Gabrielle was returning for the second time because Stanislaw had sent her back for the metal overshoes. Just, as he said, things went 'hau haben'. The trip back to her tent also gave Gabrielle the opportunity to freshen up, cleaning off the Albanian witch magic and Abraxan sneezes. It was a calculated risk; more time for Abby to be alone with George versus less repulsiveness for Gabrielle.

Professor Festeller had not been present for Gabrielle's first arrival, but he was now. So were Harry Potter, Hermione, Ron, and the insane Ginny. Ron, Gabrielle's experienced eye could see, had recently been slathered in burn paste. He had both arms wrapped in gauze; Harry had his right arm wrapped. Gabrielle wondered if the rat wizard had gotten loose. There should have been some general alarm, and a specific alarm for her! George was standing with Abby at her worktable. Gabrielle would have been jealous, or furious, or even disappointed, but he was banging on the side of her equipment with a broken chunk of tower. The apparatus was still spewing clots of a green goo, though in far smaller quantities now than Abby's face and clothes suggested had been the case earlier. A budding romance, thought Gabrielle with a smile, this was not.

"Fraulein Delacour, what are you cackling about now? By me, if you would," instructed Stanislaw. He was not, noticed Gabrielle, wearing the rubber trousers today, but an actual robe. The circle, a double ring with runes between them surrounding a large pentagram, was carved into the floor. Since the tower had toppled centuries ago, the whole of it was nearly vertical. Stanislaw was positioned at the lowest of the five vertices. Sebastion and Adalhard dangled from thick ropes that held themselves upright from the coils on the ground; the curse-breakers were at the highest vertices.

"I do - not - cackle," reminded Gabrielle. She hoped there would be a new spell to learn. It was too bad that she only had the wand with her Grandmere's hair for the core. That made it harder to learn new magic. Gabrielle drew it out, and could not help but to look around to see if the onlookers still cringed. They might have, but loose stonework had been piled up into protective barriers. At least the scattered giggles because, she was sure, of her hair ended. There did not, Gabrielle now worried, seem to be any sort of pile near Stanislaw.

"Nein, nein. Mademoiselle Delacour, you will be, yes, at the center." Professor Festeller hurried over.

"Eh, what?" The center? Gabrielle looked up at the looming pentagram and the runes. There was a swing of sorts dangling from thin cords. Someone had decorated the edges of the seat with ornate fretwork. That seemed dangerous - the perch, not the intricate woodwork. The hairs on the back on her neck might have stood up as a premonition, but all of Gabrielle's hair was already standing on end. "I, eh, don't think that is a good idea."

"Nor do I," added Stanislaw. "We will make the test of the circle first before anyone enters it. That is the correct procedure in curse-breaking."

"That is, yes, true. But Mademoiselle Delacour will, yes, make things take less time. You did, yes, say that the seal should not have, yes, broken?" argued Professor Festeller.

"Releasing a vampire!"

"Easily dealt with, yes. What is the rate, yes, for your curse-breakers?" hinted the professor.

This was important career information that interested Gabrielle a great deal. Stanislaw certainly saw a lot of galleons.

"What of the expenses for healing?" retorted Stanislaw.

Gabrielle stepped away quietly. The two wizards had begun arguing in German, which meant that Professor Festeller would soon say something that would force a glowering Stanislaw to reluctantly acquiesce. Then he would come, muttering to himself in German, looking for her. And then she would have to stand next to something that would likely explode instead of being safely behind the piled, protective barriers. Gabrielle rather thought that she would like to try the correct method of curse-breaking. There was, she noticed, a feeling, a substance to the air of the chamber. She did not think that another vampire was involved.

Gabrielle made her way over to where Harry and the others were. They stood in a knot near one of the vertices of the pentagram. Hermione was gesturing toward the point carved into the former stone floor and the runes. Gabrielle supposed that the older witch would be able to read them, and that would be interesting, but right now she had a question for Harry. If Wormface was running around loose, then she would like to know.

"[ - so the magic potential builds up at the points, then spreads along the runes until the whole circle is activated,]" lectured Hermione as Gabrielle neared. "[Then the spell is cast.]"

"[Why?]" asked Ron.

"[Why, Ron? That's all? Why what?]"

"[Why not just do the spell straight away? It must've taken ages to do all the wiggly bits.]"

"[They are runes, not 'wiggly bits'. Similar to the arithmancy and alchemical runes we use today.]"

"[You mean you use.]"

"[It's pretty obvious why they doing this, isn't it?]" started Ginny. "[It's got to be a pretty big spell to need five wizards.]"

"[Broadly correct, Ginny, but it could also have been something like Reparo. This was before wands and magical education were common. It could have been a way to use less, er, focused potential,]" explained Hermione.

"[Like Ron?]"

"[Oy!]"

"[Eh, excuse-moi. Did zee rat-wizard escape?]" asked Gabrielle.

"[Nibbles! You bloody gave me a start. Where'd you come from?]" asked Ron.

Gabrielle ignored him, and directed her next question to Harry. "[What happened to you arm? Did, eh, Wormface do zis? Did he escape?]"

"[Wormtail didn't escape. We, erm, let him go,]" said Harry sheepishly as Gabrielle stared at him.

"[Eh, what? After he attacked?]" Gabrielle turned to Hermione and demanded, "[Zis is true?]"

"[Er, yes. As I understand it, though, the boys attacked him, a bit, so it's only fair, really,]" hemmed Hermione.

"[But, eh, he hurt Harry and - Ron -,]" argued Gabrielle. Now she would have to sleep in Soleil's stall again since she would probably not be allowed to stay with George.

"[George and the 'wiggly bits' that were goblin numerals did that to Ron; he's fine. As for Harry, a spell backfired when he tried to melt the cup,]" said Hermione.

"[You don't have to be like that.]"

"[I'm fine,]" added Harry.

Melt the cup? Harry, thought Gabrielle, had lost his senses! Which, came a second thought, made him a good match for Ginny. This, she decided, called for subtlety. "[Eh, where is ze cup now? Eh, because, eh, zat Wormface will come back for it. I am sure of zat.]" Not a good start, recognized Gabrielle, but she had covered it well.

No seemed to notice. They were all looking at Hermione with various expressions of annoyance. Harry and Ginny more; Ron less. Hermione was pinkly defiant. "[Well, now we're sure it really is Hufflepuff's Cup.]"

"[Yes, but he's kept it, hasn't he?]" complained Harry.

"[We need to find a way to destroy it anyway. At least it's safe,]" rationalized Hermione.

This was not making any sense to Gabrielle. Why worry about something's safety if one wants it destroyed? Gabrielle recalled that Hufflepuff was one of Hogwarts' founders; she knew that because of the Tri-Wizard Tournament. Why was Harry Potter so intent on destroying it? "[Eh, who has it?]" asked Gabrielle as innocently as she could.

"[That poncey Professor bloke,]" said Ron. "[Never did like him.]"

Ah, thought Gabrielle, of course. Professor Festeller liked the things of history, and this piece of the past was actually whole and not even covered in dust. He would naturally be protective of something like that. She wondered, idly of course, if the Professor would tell her where it was being kept. Just out of curiosity. Fleur would be able to find that out easily. Could she smile well enough? Probably, sighed a realistic thought, not when her hair was like a bottlebrush. A different thought wondered where all this was coming from. That was not a question she could think on long, though, because, as she had expected, Stanislaw, with a face like thunder, was stalking toward her. Perhaps, Gabrielle considered, she should learn German. There would be less nonsense like this is she knew their secrets. She turned to face him.

The curse-breaker did not even look at Gabrielle, but instead spoke to Hermione. "Have the others take their places. We start now," he ordered. Only when Hermione began directing the other teens did Stanislaw turn to Gabrielle. "Fraulein Delacour, come with me."

Gabrielle followed behind the annoyed German as he stomped back to the low vertex. He halted abruptly, and then bent down to bring himself closer to her ear.

"If you have never Seen because you have wanted, now is the time to do so, liebchen. If there is any hint of what this," Stanislaw waved irritably at the circle and its center, "is for I must know now. Nullified iron or not, I do not... You should not be here. Or there." He pointed at the suspended seat. Gabrielle could not agree more, but there was nothing but a hint of unease in the chamber, and that could be coming from Stanislaw himself. Or, perhaps, Abby. It would make her look even more ridiculous than her puffball hair already did, but the lead curse-breaker's anxiety was contagious. Gabrielle stepped to the face of the upright circle, and buried her nose into the carved line.


	27. Beater Naturalle

Chapter Twenty-seven - Beater Naturalle

The old man hobbled forward, his hip arthritic and twingeing in the creaky, damnable joint was not something he could take care of himself, but he could not, dare not, trust any of the others. That was why he lived secluded in his lonesome tower. They were jealous and ambitious - grasping - and he knew that they saw him only as old and failing. But they were wrong, and this work would be a surprise to those whom he had been, and still was, superior to. Strength, fading a bit with age, had been more than bolstered by cunning.

The staff struck the line drawn across the floor. The stone rotted and crumbled to dust along the length of it. The old man lifted the end of the staff and produced, at word, a swirling wind that scoured the groove clean. The grit settled along the walls, coating, among the sundry items, the still body of his young apprentice.

That was regrettable, but treachery had to be repaid in kind. And young was just a habit of thought, the kind of thinking peculiar to the old. The man should have made his own way in the world long ago, instead of lurking around in the guise of a devoted apprentice, just waiting for his master to fall. Or, in this case, not quite waiting for the inevitable.

The staff met the floor again, this time to take some of the weight from the aching joint. His rivals believed that he could no longer control a gateway, or use any but the smallest of circles. This grand construct would come as an unwelcome shock to those who were forgetting why he had held to his position for so long. The only other who might have discerned the work's true nature, its secret, had fatally misjudged his capacity for subterfuge earlier this morn. One final, inadvertent service for his old master, perhaps. None would learn the secret now, until he truly was not the wizard most feared by his peers, the first among equals. If they knew that this was but an -

Gabrielle blinked rapidly, and looked around. Stanislaw had pulled her back from the face of the tilted floor by her arm. "Eh, what? Why did you do that?"

"You had not moved for several minutes. You might have been cursed," said Stanislaw. "It is correct procedure."

"To use your hand? That seems like it would be, eh, dangerous, if I had been cursed," puzzled Gabrielle, looking at the hand still on her arm. She would have used her wand. If, that is, she could have come up with a spell to use.

The hand pulled back as if stung, and Stanislaw all but jumped back a step himself. He cleared his throat. "You are not harmed? You often are." Soft chuckling filtered down from above from his suspended associates.

"No. I am fine," said Gabrielle curtly. "It was a Seer's trance, of course." Gabrielle gave Sebastion and Aldahard a small wave in addition to the scowl they were getting from Stanislaw. Now that she was again in the present, since she almost always Saw the past, Gabrielle noticed a change in the chamber. The space was hushed. Gone was the banging George had been making. In its place was a quiet, intermittent buzzing, like a swarm of bees that needed a rest every few seconds. Since the buzzing only happened when Abby stuck her wand into the horn thing and since she looked ecstatic, Gabrielle assumed that meant that her roughly used Gleasson apparatus was resonating strongly. She was not so ecstatic, though, that the witch did not finger the new dents ruefully. George was looking at his primitive hammer with curiosity. Why had he also not been worrying that she might have been cursed?

"What did you See? What does this damned circle do?" asked Stanislaw.

"I, eh, don't know," replied Gabrielle. Stanislaw sighed loudly. "It is not my fault! You interrupted me!"

"Never mind that. You did See something?"

Gabrielle considered putting out her hand, palm up, as a hint, but decided against antagonizing the wizard. He had worried for her. "I think, eh, I think this is a trick; that it is, eh, not what it seems." She quickly explained about the old wizard and his dead apprentice.

"Yes, that is the way it was, in history. One stepped into the Dead Man's Shoes," nodded Stanislaw. He looked past Gabrielle, so she too turned to see Professor Festeller approaching. Festeller, noticed Gabrielle, was coming from one of the farther barriers. Stanislaw added, urgently, "It is not what it seems, you say? What it seems to be is a huge _öffnung_to the Dungeon should be lucky, then, if it is not."

"There is, yes, a problem?" asked Festeller.

"I work for an _arschloch_," said the curse-breaker under his breath. He addressed the professor. "Ja. Fräulein Delacour wishes a broom to reach the center," lied Stanislaw. Gabrielle gaped at him; he was trying to get her in trouble!

Festeller made a sour face. "Is it necessary? A simple spell will, yes, suffice."

"So close to _das__umfang_?" asked Stanislaw, adding another sigh. "At least the healer is used to large numbers of casualties." He raised his wand toward Gabrielle, who nearly screamed.

"Nein, yes, no. There is no problem. I will, yes, send someone for one -"

"I have a broom here." It was George. Gabrielle gave him a smile, though one that hopefully communicated the idea that it was about time he had stopped bothering with a stupid apparatus. "I have a rock, also."

No one seemed to know what to make of George's announcement, so Gabrielle replied. "[Eh, zank you, George. I, eh, do not zink ze rock will be, eh, necessary.]" She nearly said 'useful', but that would have been a harsh judgement.

"[I'd take whatever I could if I was going up there,]" said George quietly. "[Thought this one through, do you think?]"

Probably not, thought Gabrielle. She accepted the broom, and the rock, which was very heavy in her smaller hand. "[Eh, how did you know what to repair on the Gleasson, eh, thing?]"

"[Repair? I was hitting it with that rock!]" grinned George. "[It was either a loose Weirmann tubule, or that rock is suffused with magic. All I really wanted to see was how long she'd let me thump it before her cauldron blew. Bit of a disappointment there.]"

"Who is this? He looks... familiar," said Stanislaw.

"Eh, I'm sorry. This is George Weasley," introduced Gabrielle. "[George, this is, eh, Herr Sammlermacher.]"

"Ah. Possibly related to William Weasley?"

"Yes. They are brothers," nodded Gabrielle. It made sense that the curse-breaker would know Bill.

"That bastard made quite a stink in Egypt, it is what I have heard. I hope this one is less trouble," said Stanislaw. He called up to the other two wizards in German, who guffawed in response.

"[What was that about Egypt?]" asked George. He was not-so-subtly reaching into his shirt. If he could hide a broom there, what else, wondered Gabrielle, could he have?

"William is married to my sister," said Gabrielle acerbically.

"Your sister?"

"My sister, eh, Fleur, of course. She was the Tri-Wizard champion for Beauxbatons. It was in Le Monde Magique," explained Gabrielle. "She lost," a petulant thought made her add.

"Fleur Delacour is your sister?" asked Stanislaw. Was he, eyed Gabrielle suspiciously, mocking her? As a Delacour at Beauxbatons chosen by a stupid Goblet, did he really think it was just a coincidence?

Gabrielle decided to ignore Stanislaw. Anyway, George was now being berated by Professor Festeller, who likely remembered what had happened to the wine at the school and now worried what might happen to this Thing of the Past. Gabrielle doubted that George could understand even half of the harangue. She held her hand over George's broom. "Up. Up. Up!" Gabrielle glanced around. Did anyone notice?

"It is a broom English," said George, casually disengaging himself from a flummoxed Festeller in mid-tirade. "[An older Cleansweep, but with a bit of ginger up its ar- It's a beater's broom; don't pitch forward too. you know, suddenly.]"

"[Eh, okay,]" said Gabrielle, slightly baffled. It was just like his letters (he does write) - an odd tidbit of information. She had no idea what the effect that ginger might have on a broom. But the English broom... "[Up. Up!]"

The broom rose to her hand with a slight wobble. That, thought Gabrielle, was more like it. A pessimistic thought estimated thirty seconds of flight before the old broom acted up. Luckily, all she needed to do was to drift up six or so meters; none of Professor Elevagre's hoops to fly through or poles to fly around. The gauntlet of heavy, swinging bags had been the worst. At least the one time Gabrielle had managed to reach that obstacle. Twenty-five seconds.

Gabrielle climbed onto the broom as it rose, mounting it in a way definitely not taught in Natural Arts but quite de rigueur outside of class. She straddled the broomstick once it was level and climbed slowly until she was just above the swing - there was no need to hurry on such an easy, and short, flight. Her movements were sure, even, to her mind's eye, graceful. There would not have been a problem at all, in fact, if Gabrielle had remembered that her destination was, in fact, a swing. Reaching out to clamber onto the suspended seat merely pushed it away. With one arm not finding the support it needed and the other holding a rock, Gabrielle toppled. As a result, the broom pitched forward too suddenly and snapped into a violent somersault. Gabrielle barely managed to hang on through the maneuver, and only did so because she let go of the rock as down quickly became up again. It sailed high above the swing in a near vertical trajectory. The broom stopped level again, as suddenly as it had left. Momentum carried Gabrielle onto the handle end, which also pitched the broom forward too suddenly.

The wall, floor, and swing pin-wheeled once more, and Gabrielle screamed. The rock, completing an unexpected journey of its own, took another as it met the bristle end of the broom coming forward. It was quite a good hit, and the rock, not much heavier than the expected bludger, shot forward like it had been fired from a cannon.

The missile did not have far to travel, and slammed into the upturned floor in an explosion of dust and shards. Cracks spread from the broken flagstone, and a large wedge-shaped section tumbled down. Gabrielle only saw the extent of the damage later, since another sudden stop begat another sudden pitch. This time, though, the swing caught up the tip of the broomhandle. The bristle end of the broom was going up anyway, but now it had the additional speed that the handle end should have had going down. Gabrielle was thrown forward into the center of the encircled pentagram, slightly enlarging the hole already opened by the flung rock. This... hurt.

"Merlin im Himmel!" shouted Stanislaw. He had needed to dodge the falling debris.

"[Did you see that tail-strike? Une beater naturalle!]" enthused George. He fired a long thin cord from the tip of his wand, draping it over the swaying swing. Sebastion was also making his way to the hole slowly, the thick braided rope he clung to shimmying and undulating like a snake.

"Der umfang..." moaned Professor Festeller.

"[That went all pear-shaped, dinnit?]" said Ron, coming up behind the professor. "[Means we can go, though, yeah? After finding Nibbles?]"

"[George Weasley! If you did anything to that broom, I'll - I'll find a Floo and call your Mum!]" scolded Hermione.

"[I am fine,]" lied Gabrielle. There was a cut on her face that was running into her left eye, and there was another, quite a large one, on her right arm. The edges of the shattered rock had been very sharp, but she had suffered worse injuries before. Far worse than a couple of deep, freely bleeding lacerations was what she was standing in. And that, if her guess was correct, was the hapless apprentice, who was not resting peacefully but was instead futilely trying to grab her. Fortunately the centuries had left the corpse short on tendon, but her foot was caught up in his mouldering rib cage. One could not be a witch if one became squeamish over something's, or someone's, innards, and technically Gabrielle's pets were also undead, but standing on, or in, an animated corpse was just not right. She kicked away a section of writhing spinal column. Gross. "I, eh, would like to come down. Eh, now."

Something crunched beneath her iron galoshes as Gabrielle stepped to the opening. That was probably some rib bones, but there was a lot of junk in this... What, wondered Gabrielle suddenly, was this? It was too small to be a proper room,perhaps two meters wide and the same high, but only half that front to back. The space was too large to be a proper grave, unless there had not been enough time for other victims. Given the large number of objects in a scattered mess, Gabrielle thought it could have been a closet, but who would seal one up behind stone?

The answer came from Gabrielle's vision. An insane old wizard who had just killed a man would do that, and turn the corpse into a pègresan. Gabrielle stuck her head out of the cave-like space, and stumbled back in surprise. Sebastion was unexpectedly just outside the hole.

"[Ah. Fraulein Delacour. You are not much injured?]"

"[Eh, no. A little injured, yes,]" replied Gabrielle. She wiped her eye. Sebastian had his legs and one arm wrapped around the thick rope that stood magically on its own. He reached out with his other arm toward her. Gabrielle smiled in relief.

"[Hold me, please,]" said the curse-breaker. Was he blushing?

Gabrielle took the arm and was lifted over to the rope. There was not much rope available to hold onto with the tall German in the way, so Gabrielle essentially clung to him, wrapping her legs around his hips. Sebastian was definitely red-faced now, no doubt because of whatever it was that Adalhard hooted. Holding tightly reminded Gabrielle exactly how large the wound on her arm was.

The rope swayed. It was not attached to anything at the top so that was only natural, but the braided fibers did not seem to want to settle down. "Was ist das? Stehen, Chauncey!" ordered Sebastion.

Gabrielle could see the problem. One of the blond wizard's arms held the rope; the other held her because she was slipping. The strength from the metric ton was apparently flowing out of her arms with the blood from her cuts. That left Sebastion without a free arm to wield his wand. Gabrielle looked down, and watched slow, but growing, undulations wiggle up their support. George was halfway to the swing on his rope, which was all together better behaved. Gabrielle, while of course grateful for Sebastian's aid, wished it was George who held her, both because she would rather wrap her legs around him and because the rope he used was not beginning to snap back and forth. There was a great deal of shouting from below, the completely useless sort.

The rescue turned into disaster. The whipping rope slammed Sebastian against the stones of the former floor. He lost his grip on the rope, and fell. Gabrielle managed to grab the rope briefly, and the falling curse-breaker just long enough to tear his collar. Her grip on the rope was brief because without the weight of Sebastion, the rope moved with greater speed. Gabrielle was flung across the chamber.

v - v - v - v - v

Gabrielle half-opened her eyes, and groaned. That had been a completely unpleasant fall, though she supposed it could also have been called a completely unpleasant flight. The last thing Gabrielle could recall was Abby's distraught, angular features rapidly nearing. The aches and pains she felt left no doubt that the witch had done nothing to cushion the landing.

Staring upward, Gabrielle could tell she was not in her room. The ceilings in her tent were a clean, if unimaginative, white, and the view of them was not crowded with specimen jars and shoddy boxes of potion ingredients. The jars, and the general lumpiness of what she lay on, told her that she was in the insane healer's tent. Gabrielle hoped that Ginny had been there to keep her safe, and her virgin territories unexplored. She moved slightly to try and determine what clothing she had retained.

"[Ah, you're awake.]"

Gabrielle opened her eyes fully. That was George! He had kept a vigil at her bedside - that was so sweet! A giddy, overly optimistic thought pondered the possibility that he would propose right there. It would be a long engagement, of course, but that was allowed. Or perhaps he was hoping to lead the expedition into the unknown territories. George sat in a chair, holding one of the jars in his lap. Something floated inside.

"[There's good news and bad news,]" began George. "[A bit more than bad news than good, I'm afraid.]"

Gabrielle stared at the jar, her head beginning to spin. The thing that floated in the tea-colored liquid was a hand. A pale, smallish hand. One that Gabrielle thought she might know the back of quite well. She tried to swallow, but could not. She pulled her arms out from under the sheets. Out came a hand on one arm and a bandaged stump on the other. The blood drained from Gabrielle's face, and from her head. With barely a gasp, she fainted.

"[Oh bugger.]"

v - v - v - v - v

The two witches sat on the ground in the shade of the cottage, trying to rub away some of the cramping in their arms and hands. The patch of ground, unlike all those around it, was raised to a comfortable level and had a dense cushion of moss atop it, like a thick green pillow.

"[So, erm, how is Harry?]"

"[He's fine, Hermione,]" replied Ginny. There was an angry neighing and a booming thud. "[Probably fine. Still a little shirty on some topics, mind you.]"

"[I do regret it, really.]"

"[How's Ron? Only I heard him moaning before.]"

"[Moaning?]" repeated Hermione, looking confused. "[Oh! That was when, er, ah, when -]"

The redhead looked at her friend's flushing face. "[You two are disgusting.]"

"[Anyway, Ron's fine also. Those fireworks don't do much real damage.]"

"[Yeah. Even Fred and George worked out that actually killing customers would be bad for business.]"

Hermione broke the silence that followed. "[I found out where Professor Festeller is keeping the Cup.]"

"[I suppose it being on the mantle of his fireplace would be too much to hope for?]"

"[It's in a chest in Herr Sammlermacher's tent. The one that Wormtail thought it was in,]" explained Hermione.

"[Thank Merlin for small favors! It's in a curse-breaker's locked, magicked chest. Practically in our hands again,]" teased Ginny. "[How did you that out?]"

"[They had left the top open. I wouldn't be at all surprised if Festeller had forgotten about the Cup, honestly. He's absolutely over the moon about what was in that hidden chamber -]"

"[Grave,]" interjected Ginny.

"[Oh, right, that grave that Gigi discovered,]" explained Hermione. "[There's something that might be a kind of primitive wand, the earliest one ever found. It's all very exciting. If Gigi hadn't - ]"

"[Nibbles,]" corrected Ginny. "[And I can't help but think smashed is more accurate than discovered.]"

"[Nibbles? Really? All right then, Nibbles, unfortunately, may have stepped on the artifact.]"

"[Have we reached the exciting bit yet?]"

"[Ginny, it was made from gold. Not well made; it may not even have worked,]" continued Hermione.

"[So this - is - the exciting part.]"

"[Historically, it is the goblins that make wands where the core was wrapped in a metal. If what was found was really meant to be a wand, then this is a tremendous discovery and opens all sorts of questions. For instance, was this a copy of a goblin wand? Did the goblins copy it instead? Were there once closer ties between the two races? This could literally change history overnight!]" Hermione paused for a much needed breath.

"[When the top of the chest was open, was anyone watching you?]"

"[No. Why do you ask?]"

v - v - v - v - v

Gabrielle was about to chase Madame Chouisse's cat down another of the endless hallways. It had something she very much wanted. The stupid cat was slinking away again with her poor, severed hand in its mouth. She had just managed to upset Professor Duedancorp's game with Professor Duedancorp. They had been using their wands to keep the appendage dancing over Gabrielle's head while shouting 'Expand!' at her. It was an unexpected aroma that distracted Gabrielle from her pursuit. She could smell coffee, muggle coffee, or a very good imitation of it. One of the darker roasts, she guessed, perhaps an Italian style. Not quite as sublime a scent as the coffee she had gotten from Gaston, but the fragrance was much better than the brew Beauxbatons offered - richer and deeper.

The cat, the professors, and the hallways seemed to be gone. Along, thought Gabrielle, more than a little sadly, with her little hand. Her hand? The last memories came back to Gabrielle suddenly, and she opened her eyes and shouted, "Paris!"

"The capital France, oui oui. The Arc de Trump."

"George! You must take me to - [You will take me to Paris! Ze 'ealer zere can put my 'and on. I know zis is true.]" cried Gabrielle.

"[Right, Paris. No problem there, luv, passed it on the way here. Just have some of this and we'll be on our way.]" He held out a cup made from heavy card, with a flimsy plastic lid. It was muggle coffee.

"[Eh, zank you, but zere is no time! And where is my - ]" Gabrielle stopped. She was holding the cup in her hand, the one moments ago she was certain was lost. Her face fell - she had completely fallen for the prank. A silly little girl, thought Gabrielle. A silly, stupid little girl. That is what George must think of me. Merde!

"[I, um, I'm sorry about that earlier, luv,]" said George clearing his throat.

"[Eh, what? You are?]"

"[I'm not saying I wouldn't have done it still, mind you. I'm sorry it was so... heavy-handed. As it were,]" grinned George sheepishly.

"[Eh, okay,]" said Gabrielle suspiciously. She took a very cautious sip of the liquid in the cup. It seemed to be coffee; quite good coffee, actually.

"[So no hard feelings? 'Cause there's a wheezy old nutter back there who's dead set on cursing someone,]" explained George. He gestured toward a cluttered corner.

Gabrielle furrowed her brow. She was not sure who George was talking about, but Herr Von Schwinky had been stashed over near there. He was still alive?

Gabrielle answered herself. Of course he was still alive! Had she not Seen that? This boosted her confidence, so she pressed her luck. "[It is, eh, proper to apologize wizz, eh, a kiss?]" That had not come out sounding like the obvious tradition that everyone of course knew that Gabrielle had intended. Now the challenge was to keep her face neutral.

"[That's French, is it?]"

"Oui. Certainement," nodded Gabrielle quickly. She smiled - it was working.

"[I suppose you would know,]" said George. He leaned in toward her. Gabrielle tilted her head into what she hoped was the appropriate angle. Her lips pursed on their own in anticipation. His face was just above hers. Gabrielle could smell his scent. She closed her eyes to focus on the feeling...

The feeling of his lips on her forehead. He had missed? That was Gabrielle's first thought, which a second thought pointed out was definitely dumb. George had kissed her, but it had been the wrong sort of kiss. She opened her eyes and frowned.

"[Just so you know, that Abby's still in a bit of a bother over what happened,]" said George. Gabrielle's frowned deepened. "[What's wrong? You look like you lost your wand.]"

"[What is wrong? Everyzing! What girl of my age wished for a kiss like zat? And zen to speak of anozzer? It is not proper, very much so. You are zee, eh, plunker!]" exploded Gabrielle. "[And I have lost my wand. I did tell you zat ze house-elf took it, and you did nozzing.]"

"[I'm sorry, but you French seem to have a lot of rules.]"

"[Zat is anozzer apology, and you, eh, must do ze first again.]"

"[Mind if I try some of that potion you're on?]"

"[Eh, what?]" Gabrielle looked around her. She did not remember any potions, and there were no flasks or bottles nearby. At least, no small bottles that looked like she should drink from them. The only bottles she could see were large, dusty, and had skulls on the labels. It was also beside the point and probably meant to distract her. "[Zere is no potion. Now you will give ze proper kiss. Eh, bozz of zem.]"

"[Look -]"

"[Zat means on ze lips, if you, eh, did not know,]" added Gabrielle.

"[How is it proper for a bloke my age to do that with a girl your age?]" argued George.

"[It is, eh, okay if you are my, eh, fiancé,]" tried Gabrielle. "[Zat is true!]" she insisted, loud enough to be heard over George's laughter.

"[That was a good one. I - thought - you were having me on,]" said George after a long while.

"[Not everyzing is to be a joke!]"

"[Seriously?]"

"[Oui,]" affirmed Gabrielle, attempting to look hurt rather than very embarrassed.

"[Seriously round the bend. Where would I get a ring out here?]"

"[You, eh, could get zat, eh, later.]"

George contrived to look shocked and affronted. "[You think I'm the sort of wizard who would make such a commitment so lightly? It must be proper, as you said. And said. And said. That means you've got to have a ring.]"

"[Of course, but, eh, but...]" Gabrielle was at a loss, so she sipped more of the coffee. A second thought made her look at the cup again. "[George, where did you buy zis coffee?]"

"[Oh, well spotted, that!]" praised George, which made Gabrielle smile. "[First chance I get I'll have a look round the shops.]" With that, the purveyor of pranks sat back.

Gabrielle's smile faded a bit. She had the distinct feeling of having both won and lost. "[You can go now,]" said Gabrielle with a touch of annoyance. "[Ze diamond, eh, does not have to be, eh, zat big.]"

"[No one believes a bird when she says that. Least not if they want to wake up with all the bits they went to bed with,]" teased George. "[I've got to wait for Ginny to get back from breakfast before I can leave. Or Ron, I suppose, though that would be an end-sign - him leaving before the food ran out.]"

"[Eh, what? It is morning?]" asked Gabrielle, surprised. And very quickly alarmed. "[Soleil! I, eh, I must go to him!]" The colt was her charge - no one else went anywhere the stall if they could help it. Without her to feed him - the metric ton - Soleil would be hungry. And a hungry Abraxan would be an angry Abraxan. He would bite everything to see if it was food and kick what was not. Gabrielle sat up, with the sheet held to her neck, though she did still have her blouse, and tried to see if the casualties were already beginning to fill the tent.

"[Relax, luv. Ginny and Hermione are helping with breakfast, and we left the winged terror to Harry. Ron is supposed to keep an eye on the professor. Odds are he's forgotten which one he is,]" explained George.

"[You sent Harry Potter to Soleil?]"

"[Well, he gets on with hippogriffs all right, and you saw him with that dragon. He'll be fine. Or we've doomed wizardkind to slavery under You-Know-Who.]"

"[Eh, what?]"

"[Don't worry, I'm sure he'll muddle through. I should catch you up on a few other things as well.]"

"[Can I have my underwear back? If it is morning zen, eh...]" Gabrielle trailed off before she ruined the mood by mentioning Maman and her fresh-daily rule.

v - v - v - v - v

The figure dragged itself slowly over the low stone wall, tumbling into the garden. It's clothing was in tatters, scorched, and hung from the soot-blackened figure in ways that made it clear the dress had been unusual. A pathetic groaning came from the arrival's lips. This had little effect on the black-clad man watching the painful progress, though he did note the silver replica of a lower arm and hand.

"[I am astonished, Pettigrew,]" remarked Severus Snape. "[A spectacle such as this, and there are no muggles following you?]"

"[No,]" groaned the luckless Wormtail. "[Not anymore.]"

That might explain the wailing sirens earlier, thought Snape. "[Have you brought what the Dark Lord ordered you to retrieve?]"

"[Have to... tell our lord -]"

"[That Potter is here?]" asked Snape with a smirk. "[He knows. Lord Voldemort always knows.]" The former professor allowed himself the slightest roll of the eyes. Said Dark Lord was probably cajolng a muggle shopkeeper into a free second pudding in the small town near where the larger muggle roads crossed.

"[The pain,]" moaned Wormtail.

"[Not a healer, sorry,]" declared Snape. Admittedly, potions to soothe and repair went a long way into what was required to be a healer, but Snape had a long memory for what this rat had cost him and the wizarding world. "[Lost your wand, Peter?]"

"[Big. Firework.]"

Yes, remembered the potions master with some glee, the fireball had been huge - at least to his eyes. There had been no noticeable alarm among the muggles. The Weasley twins had either gained a focus they had always lacked in class, or the ongoing military action in the region had inured the population. "[I suggest you make yourself presentable for when our lord eats his - returns. I further suggest you choose something you'd like to be buried in.]" If the Dark Lord left that much.

There was no response to this, nor to the prodding by Snape's foot. It was light work with a wand to bury the injured Death Eater in a shallow grave. Bowing to the knowledge that he was, in fact, not a healer, Snape left a large hole for Wormtail to breathe through. If the rat was breathing. The close proximity of an anthill would eventually provide the evidence needed as to whether to finish the job or not.

v - v - v - v - v

Gabrielle put the paper cup with its thin white lid to her lips. It was only for show; she had finished the contents some time ago. The ruse was just to keep George from noticing the passing time. A hopeful thought reminded her that he had a very important errand to run, but then a realistic thought countered that it was best to put off the disappointment for as long as possible. These were all ridiculous, she decided finally, because she and George were having a lovely conversation. It was just not at a beautiful street-side bistro in Paris, nor atop the Wizard's Perch on the Eiffel Tower, with the grand views that Fleur had told her of. They did not cover the topics she hoped for either. But it was fun.

Part of what made it fun was that George had had some coffee as well. Actually, several cups of the coffee. Which was, perhaps, too much. He was soon speaking so quickly that she had trouble keeping up, and could not stop giggling at the stream of jokes and terrible impersonations, even if she did not quite get some of them.

It was not all silliness though. Sebastion had been badly hurt. The healer had needed to use one of his crude implements to uncrush the back of the curse-breaker's head. Gabrielle was surprised when George showed the bell-ended rod to her, making gross sucking noises as he showed how it worked. Monsieur Toulier had such a thing as well, though he kept his in the bathroom. Tucked in behind the toilet was not, in Gabrielle's opinion, proper storage for surgical supplies.

Abby had also been hurt as Gabrielle had crashed down like a blond meteor - or, less charitably, a bludger. George claimed that her injuries had been minor, but then he also described how she had somehow ended up getting impaled by the in-feed horn of her precious, and thoroughly ruined, Gleasson apparatus. The squealing George imitated, from the vibrations caused by the resonance as a wand was brought near, sounded horrible. This certainly did not sound like a minor injury at all to Gabrielle, but perhaps she had misunderstood George's over-caffeinated speech. She certainly could not see why her near-fiancé found it so amusing, nor why it was lucky that Abby was not saving herself for marriage. That his assertion might have something to do with the witch's injuries eluded Gabrielle. She, instead, worried more about the how and why George had come to know - that - piece of information.

A distraction came in the form of a toppled tower of specimen jars, the contents of which washed up against Gabrielle's lumpy cot like a pickled tide. A score of black, wizened toads righted themselves and glared irritably at Gabrielle, as if it were at all her fault they had lost their glass home. She could tell they were angry because of her experience with the recalcitrant Poisseux - just look at the angles. How rude! The true focus for the amphibian annoyance stumbled into view moments later. It was a very pallid, heavily sweating Von Schnickel-something. Even his long white hair had lost much of its lustre, but he was now standing. Swaying quite a bit, noticed Gabrielle, but definitely standing, with his wand held tightly to his chest.

"[Cor, it's that wheezy nutter with the frond fetish. I'm staggered he's staggered this far,]" said George.

"[...Melusina... your laugh... entrancing...]"

"[Oh mon Dieu! What are you doing?]" blurted Gabrielle. "[You should not be out of bed!]"

"[Should he even be alive? I've seen turnips with more blood in them,]" wondered George.

"[Eh, what?]"

"[...when... I was... up... You promised...]"

"[Eh, what?]"

"[Bitte Blackig,]" began the treacherous, wand-snatching house-elf, addressing the ancient, rasping wizard. "[Heiler Verletzunger sagt, dass Sie nicht geheilt werden.]"

"[Visiting hours for the pensioner home have begun, I see.]"

"[Eh,]" began Gabrielle. Don't say what, advised a second thought. It was bad for her image. A horrified thought then dug up a memory where she had, sort of, in a way, promised to kiss the man visibly graying in front of her. Which was followed by another, guilty thought that reminded her that that may be the only reason why he was still alive. Did she want him to die?

Events overtook Gabrielle. Herr Von, eh, S. raised his wand, Blackig raised his finger, and George stood up. A wobbly circle of red radiance danced around the house-elf, who look at it with apprehension. With his black wand away from his chest, Gabrielle could see that the hole from the unicorn's horn had, if anything, gotten larger. Which meant that quite a lot of glistening, red, pulsating stuff was visible through it. The wounded wizard was using a language Gabrielle had never heard before - it was guttural, dark, and unpleasant in the ears. She recalled her brief vision after touching the ebony baton once, and raised the sheets higher.

Which Gabrielle quickly decided was useless and stupid. "Stop this!" she demanded, unfortunately choosing, in the dire moment, the one language the spellcaster did not know. The deadly wand was thrust forward with a word that was more grunt than speech.

"_Protego__!_" bellowed George. The snaking red filament from the black wand struck the shield spell with a concussion that could only be compared, for Gabrielle at least, to the sound of a school tower collapsing. More jars and piles of clutter toppled; Gabrielle nearly lost the sheets from her cot. That was only a problem because her slacks were currently missing.

Herr Von Psycho sagged, went limp, and slumped onto the makeshift cot, and onto the stunned Gabrielle. The insane old wizard's face was buried in her legs so, a completely unfunny thought added, at least he had died happy. Blackig was staring at George curiously. George was shaking out the hand that had held the wand, and loudly proclaiming that he would never, ever be able to sign bank drafts and legal settlements again.

"[...I... can see... paradise...]" announced a feeble voice that came from a place too close to Gabrielle. Herr Von Sneaky was still not dead, a diagnosis confirmed by something gently sliding along her leg. Gabrielle reacted with indignant energy and a squeal, pulling the sheets to her again while pummeling the impertinent lecher to the floor with the legs he so desired.

George sat back down after shooing off the fawning Blackig. The house-elf began to drag off his other patient by a leg. They left a dark trail behind them. "[Reminds me, I've brought your post.]"

"[Eh, what?]"


	28. Meanwhile, Elsewhere, and Then

Chapter Twenty-eight - Meanwhile, Elsewhere, and Then

The sofa creaked slightly as the headmistress of Beauxbatons settled into it. The pedigreed piece - it once sat in the Palace of Versailles as a comfortable spot to wait for an audience with the Royal Wizards - would have liked to creak much more loudly under the load, but a wand had persuaded it otherwise. The sofa was pulled up before a wide table set with a light lunch for six, or for her and the dapper and far more slight wizard across the filled table.

"I do apologize, my dear madame. I am absolutely famished." Madame Maxime smiled politely at the architect. The assertion was, she supposed, meant to cover any embarrassment she might feel at the quantities, but it also very clearly noted those quantities and drew attention to the attempt to draw away the attention. He never failed to say it either, whether there was someone else to hear or not. An attention to detail required of his trade. She hoped.

Said architect, Francois DeLoy Droit, set to filling his plate, so Madame Maxime demurely placed two of the whole roasted chickens on her own plate. She also took several of the intriguing layered, sliced potato and foie gras creations, a tall stack stabbed through with a spear of rosemary. The presentation was undoubtedly inspired by the current muggle culinary fad for food that stuck up from the plate. The headmistress wondered if that would be worth speaking to the house-elves about, for next term. The polite clatter of utensils, and occasional wand wave, worked to clear the table.

"The marble is perfect. You have made an excellent choice, Headmistress," said Francois. His plate, for all the activity, was still quite full, but he floated the latest scale model over to the table.

"Please, call me Olympe," she reminded. Again. It was a polite detail once more, or Francois was a slave to habit. The latest model, including the final choice of stone, was quite extraordinary. Except...

Madame Maxime's doubts about the architect had vanished long ago, as had her rather pedestrian vision of a near twin for the Ivory tower. Francois's vision was a glorious integration of the Ivory - and - Glass towers, with the alternating striations of shaded glass and pale marble spiraling up the edifice. Just inside the inner walls, five pairs of counter-rotating staircases wrapped around the classrooms inside. The slowly spinning staircases were done in the Beauxbatons colors, and crossed each other and the graduated glass to put on a magnificent, changing show. The tower was... alive. It did not so much as fill the gap between the Palace's current showpieces as take its place as their Mugwump. There was, she had to admit, a bit less classroom than one would expect; quite a bit less than one would expect considering the cost. The budget had vanished long ago as well. But...

Every tower, to an old-fashioned sort of mind, has a certain degree of the phallus to it. Madame Maxime had, by choice and practice, a thoroughly modern mind, not prone to see corruption in every curve. But the outline of the tower, however superlative, presented no alternative. The problem were the suggestive, round buttresses at the base. There were three - nothing amiss there unless one was studying particularly unusual anteaters in the tropics. The trouble, it was difficult to ignore, came from the fact that only two were visible from any angle on the ground. To make matters worse, the tip, sorry, top of the tower sported a domed observation level, with a decidedly organic shape to the roof. Madame Maxime knew she could learn to not see the resemblance, but the students... She had already come up with a dozen possible rude names for the new building herself. There was no way students giggling over 'Tringle Tower' or 'Trique Tower' would be allowed to tarnish Beauxbatons image. "Francois..."

v - v - v - v - v

Darkness comes in many forms. There is the darkness of the shadows where ill deeds are done. There is the darkness that falls across the hearts of men, from where those deeds spring. There is also the darkness that swallows the whole of a man's life, put there by others or by fate.

A tumbling clatter of something inadvertently kicked broke through the whispered quiet of the night. That was a very literal kind of darkness, one that Remus Lupin chose of late to move in. He found that people were more tolerant of werewolves if they were not actually present. "Damn," cursed a voice.

"It's all right, Tonks. Light your wand - no one will bother us." This was certain. All manner of witch, wizard, and magical being made the same basic circuit of Godric's Hollow. There would be no peace at all if the alarm was raised for every furtive figure that visited and was, perhaps, uncomfortable with the muggle portion of the village. Lupin waited in front of the gravestone as a very dim light bobbed it's way closer. The grave of his dearest friend was always his first stop. The light dropped suddenly to the ground before rising up again after, Lupin guessed, a brief moment of shin rubbing. The once open sections of the cemetery were filling with fresh memorials.

"He does look alot like his Dad," said Tonks. Her arm found its way around Lupin's waist.

"Yes, he does," agreed Lupin. The he in question was his godson, Harry Potter. "I would say now though that he's a bit more like his Mum." Lily Potter had always held her work and secrets closer than James had, and now Harry was doing the same. Unknown to Harry was Fred Weasley's involvement, and Verity's too, although a memory charm had made her involvement brief. The hurried charm was not so precise, and that meant Fred was not going to be a problem either. He was finding it difficult to explain to Verity why the witch's things were at a new flat, and why his things were there as well. A sudden trip to France was in the offing for Fred.

"Just feeling nostalgic tonight, Remus?" asked Tonks, her breath tickling his ear.

"No, not really," replied Lupin truthfully. He had never spent much time in Godric's Hollow. "I've something to do for Harry - not for the Order." That was an attempt to forestall the question that came anyway.

"What is Harry wanting?"

"Oh, I just need to check for something at the Potter's place," answered Lupin.

The arm around his waist retracted. "You just wanted me here to get through the ward," accused Tonks. Playfully?

"Well, ah, there are some very nice restaurants -"

"Midnight's done and gone, lover," reminded Tonks. "But when you've finished with what you need to do, I know a couple of pubs that'll be open. Muggle too, so there won't be a problem with, with..."

Remus could, even in the dim light of the stars and the odd street lamp, see her shrink. It was a common reaction familiar to him and other werewolves; only the auror's special abilities as a metamorphmagus made it physically manifest. "With an old lecher like me carrying on with a pretty young thing like you?" He pulled the quieted Tonks to his side and started along the well-worn path toward Harry's birthplace.

"Wish that's what I'd been thinking."

"That must mean that I'm not trying hard enough," teased Lupin.

"Hah - hard enough. More like not often enough," replied Tonks in her more usual tone. "Oh Merlin, I mean - I didn't mean - Cor, I must sound a right stupid bint."

"No, don't be like that. You're a wonderful witch, much more than I deserve, I'm certain."

"And don't you be like that!"

The house was as it had been in the aftermath of that fateful day, the upper floor torn asunder and charred. A less cheery memorial than the magical statues. Lupin could easily smell the scents of the masses of flowers in the garden. Those made an unintentional memorial, seeding themselves from the potted plants left by pilgrims over the years. He dimly recalled a ban on tentacular roses, something obviously ignored as he slashed with his wand at a reaching, thorny vine. Tonks took the lead when they approached the front door.

"What, in, you know, general terms, are you going to do?" she asked. Tonks tapped her wand three times on the door's peephole. The cover over the glass opened and distinctly scrutinized the couple. "Nymphadora Tonks, auror," she announced.

"I just need to look around a bit," replied Lupin honestly.

"This place has already been gone over with an enchanted fine-toothed comb," noted Tonks, pulling open the door.

Lupin stepped through. He wondered if that was true. He remembered the chaos following the attack, and the jubilation as the news of the extraordinary event spread. He also recalled the haste with which the Ministry made to return to normal, wrapping up loose ends like Padfoot and smoothing over the culpability of families like the Malfoys. It was certainly likely that little more than casting the wards had been done to the wreckage. "We'll see."

The study of the Dark Arts is, to a great degree, the study of secrets, and the keys to the study of secrets is knowing that there is one and knowing how to find it. The first of the keys had been in Harry's message; the second was simple to work out as well. Dumbledore was renown as a scholar, a researcher, and a keeper of secrets. The deceased headmaster's private collection of doubly Restricted works was an obvious place to start. The main obstacle had been the current head of the school. Minerva McGonagall had taken a very dim view not so much of the request but of the continued need for secrecy. Lupin had managed to find what he was looking for surprisingly quickly, and once he had undone the curse protecting the tome he knew what to do. It had taken far more time, including recovering from several nasty jinxes, to open and page through the rest of the scores of books and scrolls, in order to throw the headmistress off the scent. Fortunately, as a werewolf, he was naturally resistant and hard to kill.

Lupin slipped into the ruined nursery and pulled a small dented tin from his pocket. This was another of the second keys: the contents were the finely powdered ear hair of a particular hybrid species of yeti. Scattered, the dust would tend to settle on even the faintest traces of magic, the strongest attracting the most. It was ludicrously expensive; the hybrids were sterile, and only differed from other yetis by the color their spleens turned when cooked. Finding the rare had all but wiped out the common. A Thurlow lens was less sensitive, and less portable, but far more affordable. Conveniently, the tin had been left out on the desk in Dumbledore's private library, and the portraits had been deserted. Lupin rather hoped that Minerva would not notice it missing before at least the tin, if not the contents, could be returned.

The white dust inside was pitched into the air, and scattered more widely with swirling magical gusts. Lupin quickly stepped back to the hall to avoid being covered himself. It took but a few minutes to settle before he looked in.

The two narrow, heavily dusted thin wedges on the floor represented, Lupin knew, the killing curses. He had expected them, of course, but the feeling of only numbness surprised him. Lupin knelt and examined the shorter one, the one presumably aimed at Harry, more closely. That trace had a fainter central spine, which began abruptly at the edge of a floorboard. This, Lupin guessed, was the unexpected backlash of the rebounding curse, and pointed in the direction for his search. He made to stand, but an unexpected glinting caught his eye. Beneath and behind the forlorn, broken crib was a shattered mirror. This was odd enough for Lupin to take another, closer look.

What he found, delineated in feathery lines of exotic ground hair, was half a pentagram. The markings were too indistinct to make out. Half a pentagram, and a mirror. Was that even possible? Obviously, Lupin reminded himself. Lily Potter's sacrifice was less a last moment act of desperation than a carefully planned final defence. Secretly planned, as well, thought Lupin, or only Harry and his father would have been here. The former Dark Arts professor did not know much of mirror magic, other than it was extremely dangerous. Everyone, for instance, grew up knowing not to get caught between two mirrors.

Lupin pulled himself away from the shards. To understand how it had been done might take years of study, possibly a decade. That was surely more time than Tonks would indulge. He crossed the room in the direction indicated by the thin line of the backlash, and began sifting through the debris. Harry felt sure that there would be something to find, but he had not known, or had not divulged, what it might be. Lupin prayed that there was nothing.

The search was not difficult; the powdered yeti dust had done its work. The thick layer of white clearly indicated something lay in the tortured remains of what might have once been a family heirloom. In fact, the trail Lupin followed led through the wreckage of the wardrobe and into the plaster wall where, ignoring the splintered lath lacerating his hands, he pulled out a small gold object.

It was a snitch, or it had been one before the magical forces had blasted it. The wings hung limply; one was askew. Not an unlikely find in the home of someone as quidditch-mad as James Potter. Not even unlikely to be found in the nursery - start them young was the advice. Lupin told himself these things even as his instincts could see otherwise, and if it were otherwise then there was the terrible possibility that Harry was right. Lupin felt like someone had conjured a cold stone inside his stomach.

It was the shape that weakened his knees and sagged him to the floor. Not that it was clearly squashed, but that it had not been round in the first place. The quidditch snitch had originally been the snidget, a bird reknown for its elusiveness. This snitch was not a simple winged sphere with stylized feathers engraved on it. This snitched had definitely been bird-shaped. Stouter and stubbier than its avian progenitor, to be sure, but not the plain sphere of a modern snitch. This was one of the original magicked snitches by the legendary Bowman Wright, extremely rare and next to priceless. There was still the possibility that this just a treasured heirloom - the Potters were, after all, a very old wizarding family. But it was also exactly the sort of item Harry had expected.

v - v - v - v - v

"Ho! Weasel!"

Charlie Weasley turned reflexively toward the sound of the hated nickname. He'd have a go at any man using it, even Linus, the huge Finn who was all right most times save when he'd been drinking.

This time the man to confront was old, lame, and had a face that looked, and had, melted into a blob on the end of his nose. He was having trouble scaling the stockade fence. "Snouty, you old cinder! Are you trying to get yourself killed? Did the horntails get loose again?" An uneven set of stairs grew from the thick tree trunks making up the fence - transfiguration had not been Charlie's top subject.

"Think I'd come hollerin' fer you fer something small like that? I was there, lad, back in '43 when the whole bloody pen of adults, not a handful of fledglings, did a runner. I brought in -"

"- half yourself and at half my age, yeah. What do you want, Snouty? You know I don't like that name," warned Charlie. He turned back to the Welsh greens he had been watching.

"Thinkin' about ridin' 'em again, ain't ya? Completely daft," said Snouty. "'Special now when you've got others - other things to think of."

"The fumes from the dung pits getting to you? What are you on about now?" asked Charlie. "And it's not daft. It's just not been done lately."

"I want to talk to you about yer bird."

"She's not my bird, Snouty."

"You keep tellin' yerself that, lad," chuckled Snouty with a nod. "Thought an old seeker like yerself could see better."

"Bugger off, you old git."

"It's a small camp, lad, an' it's not hard to take notice of who sneaks off with who," explained the older dragon-keeper. "'Special if it were with what you might call increasin' reg-you-larity."

"And here I thought you were called Snouty for the size of your beak, not for how you stick it into others' business," huffed Charlie. "I'm not the only one."

"This isn't the place fer her, lad."

"She came here on her own!"

"Yeah. That she did."

"She pulls her weight in camp."

"An' thank Merlin she's but a little bit of a thing," said Snouty. Seeing the young man's face darken, he quickly added, "She's a game one, lad, no doubt. Very good, I'd say, with hatchin' and hatchlin's. But soon as they're on solids they use her as a chew toy."

"You don't want her here. Fine - have Crumbling tell her, if you're not man enough."

"That's not it at all, you bloody great idiot. The eggs, the hatchin', the carin' fer the little blighters so well they follows her around - the way she looks at you - don't that say anything to you?" hinted Snouty.

"Should it?"

Snouty spit and swore. "Merlin's mighty todger, ya can't be that thick! Of course it should say something!"

Charlie looked at his hands, then the dragons dozing in the midday sun. When Yvette had turned up out of the blue, he had had an inkling of what her motive might be. But she had thrown herself into the work and done whatever was asked of her. Often badly, often very badly, and with daily trips to the infirmary, but that was the way it was with greenwands. The language barrier did not help, and what smattering of French those in camp knew was more suited for negotiating affection at a brothel. Yvette never complained though, even after spending a week working the dung pit. When the blond was not messing up, or being patched up, she would always come and watch him. Things sort of... carried on from there. "But she loves dragons," said Charlie absently.

Snouty snorted, which was quite a thing to hear. "Think you mean a dragon-keeper there, lad. In my experience, she's wanting a hatchlin' or two of her own. They'll need a name, and she'll need a ring."

"What?! Are you - Who's being a bloody idiot now?" sputtered Charlie. "I'm not leaving Romania. Not for some cramped walk-up in Paris. Or London."

"Never said you had to go that far, lad. Set her up in a cottage, nearby so she can keep her wand in, a few amenables, that sort of thing," explained Snouty. "Done it a few times myself."

"You? A few times? Go on and pull the other one - it's got bells on."

"You lads seem to forget I haven't always been this old."

"Or ugly?"

Snouty snorted again. "I put my share of birds up, it's true," he added proudly. "Done right by 'em."

"Then they woke up to the full horror of what they had done?"

"Ha, no. It's just, well, as the years pass they gets settled, and then the camp moves, and, well, they don't," observed the senior dragon-keeper with just a hint of melancholy. Then he brightened. "Still, better grub while it lasts. Warmer bed too."

v - v - v - v - v

Arthur Weasley, covered in splattered eggs, rotting tomato, stinksap, and what would likely be thought of as excrement, arrived home, and pulled the door closed behind him. It had, all in all, been a rather better day; quite good in fact.

"Is that you Arthur?"

"Yes, dear. I was able to get away much earlier today."

"Has there been any word from the children, or George? I do think we should have - Good gracious, Arthur! Are you hurt?" asked a shocked Molly Weasley. Briefly shocked, then quite angry. "These protesters are getting completely out of hand! I understand their grief, of course, and some parts of the Ministry clearly need new leadership, but this - this is hooliganism!"

"Sorry? Oh! This? Fred did this," explained Arthur, indicating the disgusting state of his robes.

"Fred?" asked his wife, confused. "Our Fred?"

"When did George stop being a child? It'll mean a rise for him at the shop," noted Fred, coming into the entry hall from the sitting room. "Hullo, Dad. How'd it go?"

"Fred Weasley, you complete ingrate! How can you have done this to your father, after we took you back in? You're completely welcome, of course, but is this anyway to show your appreciation? Not that we aren't happy to help. I can see now why that Verity threw you out! Who can blame her, even if I never really liked her in the first place!" ranted his mother.

"It's all right, dear," soothed Arthur.

"It's not all right!"

"It's pissy-kology, is what it is," stated Fred.

"I won't have that sort of language used in my house!"

"Molly, please. It isn't what you think. See?" Arthur slipped out of what could then be seen to be a very nearly transparent hooded cloak covered in filth. A touch of the senior Weasley's wand made the gruesome coating fade into a decidedly ugly print pattern on the item.

"Who's going to bother Dad when he already looks like that? Your mates wouldn't be able to see what you threw, so what's the good in throwing anything? Pissy-kology!" explained Fred. "Sheds minor curses, jinxes, and rain too. All for a very reasonable price."

"Reasonable? I should think not," muttered Arthur.

"Reasonable to me then," winked Fred with a grin.

"Speaking of ungrateful children, has there been an owl, or anything?" asked Molly.

"I'm counted among the children, and George isn't?" asked Fred affronted. "Do you even know how he acts in the pubs?"

"I'm very sorry, Molly. There's still no word," said Arthur, shaking his head. "No direct word, anyway. I ran into Tonks early -"

"Or she ran into you," interjected Fred.

"Yes, thank you. Remus had word from Harry. Wouldn't say much about it, but they're all fine apparently," finished Arthur.

"Hmmph. Is it really so much to expect even a single owl? I'm quite sure they were brought up better than that."

"I blame outside influences," declared Fred. "That Potter character always seemed a bit dodgy to me."

"On the topic of dodginess, Fred, I came across something unusual in your file. An update to a certain status," hinted Arthur.

"Did I mention the free trial offer - this week only - for guinea - er, early adopters?" asked Fred. "Might have slipped my mind."

"Seems to have, and I think I'll take you up on that."

"What is this?" asked the matron of the house suspiciously.

"Just that one of the many investigations -"

"Many, unwarranted investigations indicative of prosecutorial malice," clarified Fred.

"So you say, or perhaps your solicitor does. As I was about to say, one of the investigations has been vanished."

"Thank Merlin for that," said Molly. "We don't need a repeat of that love potion fiasco. Now, I think we all could do with a spot of tea before dinner. Geff, dear?"

There was a quiet pop as the old house-elf, who had once served at Hogwarts before ending up attached to the Weasley household, appeared. He wore a pair of trousers shrunk down to fit his bandy legs, and a similarly shrunk jumper with a 'G' knitted into it. These could have been cleaner, but as house-elf clothing went they were quite ordinary. What was not ordinary was the large mass of red yarn arranged on his head.

"Yes, Miss-us Wheez-lee?" prompted the old elf.

"Be a dear, Geff, and set the tea please."

"Yes... Mum!" squealed Geff giddily before disappearing.

"You know, that is just creepy," said Fred. "And he's not fooling anyone - there isn't a freckle on him."

"Hush now, or you'll give him ideas. The poor thing hasn't been right since Christmas."

v - v - v - v - v

Toads are, as a general rule, solitary creatures, plodding through the world with only little regard for their fellow. So the collection of toads at the edge of the field of tall grain was unusual. But not as unusual as the toad that was slightly apart from his kin. His skin was smooth, hard, and translucent, because his skin and body was crafted from spellotape. He, Poisseux, as a toad, did not know that, nor why his form had changed. What he had come to know was that he was as near to invulnerable as a toad could get, and that he had been chosen for greater things. He had been shown the power, and he wanted it back. Poisseux set his body to a very persuasive angle, and turned to the gathered amphibians.

v - v - v - v - v

The blood slowly traced the lines and runes scribed into the stone, slowing as it thickened. Narcissa Malfoy watched the flow with some concern. If it overflowed the carpeting would just be ruined. A smaller animal, a kid or a lamb perhaps, would have been a less messy choice. But the ram had obviously been the muggle's prize animal, one that was worthy of the Malfoy name.

At least the now-dead animal had not cost anything but the price of a sleeping draught for the herder. The same could not be said of that humiliating "family" clock Madame Malfoy had had made. There was a hundred galleons that she would not see again. A hundred galleons, and all she had to show for it was a garish polished wood clock festooned with cherubs, and three hands, one of which did not move much and the other which did not move at all.

The device had seemed a clever idea at first. Narcissa had a lock of hair from Lucius, and one of her own, of course. The clever bit was the lock of hair from precious Draco, sent by that mudblood-loving Potter. The clock would surely reveal her son's location, since the lock had been taken - after - Draco was imprisoned. Narcissa had not, though, anticipated the embarrassment, the humiliation, of activating the clock in the less than empty shop. The hand of the clock marked for her husband had swung around until the face arranged itself, stopping finally, in public, on "In Azkaban, and bang to rights too." That was very close to another choice: "Grovelling." In more normal times, Narcissa would have had the smirking craftsman hexed to within an inch of his life - and gotten the galleons back too, since the cloyingly decorated device had not worked. Instead, she had to hurry from the shop with the thing hidden under her cloak.

Now there was doubt. Not about the location of Lucius, though the name on his clock hand occasionally, and inexplicably, changed to Princess Leia. Usually late at night. There was certainly no mention of such a name in the records of peerage.

Madame Malfoy checked her notes on the sheet of parchment. Everything seemed to gone as it should. Excepting the volume of blood - and unfortunately that was nearly impossible to clean up when ritually spilled. She stared at the twisted length of goat gut. It had been a muggle's animal, so this was just too unlikely a coincidence. The intestines spelled out what the odious clock still insisted: Draco was at Hogwarts. "Safe at Hogwarts," claimed the clock; the cast innards had nothing to say in that regard. The animal had been large, but not gigantic.

v - v - v - v - v

Gabrielle stared down at hole, still edged with the last flickering sizzle of magic, and a dozen of thoughts tried to be first in her head.

Chief among them was the realization that this was the first time she had ever been glad that the growth spurt, or two, that she had always hoped for had not come. Gabrielle had been forced to move from standing on the seat of the chair to standing precariously on its arm in order to gain the desired altitude. Her foot had been where the hole, which had gone straight through the ruined furniture in an instant, now was.

The chair, which was probably no longer a chair, not with a hole like that in it, was in Soleil's stall. More importantly, the chair had come from Gabrielle's tent, which made it a Beauxbatons chair. The thought came to Gabrielle that it, and the bedroom the unicorn had wrecked, were probably expected to be returned in their original condition. Someone was going to pay for this, with galleons or detentions or with a Howler from Maman.

Another thought Gabrielle had was what she ought to be doing about Fred. Clearly, it had to be Fred who was responsible for including the W-holes. Was he trying to kill her? Gabrielle could not believe the brothers had tried to sell these potentially lethal things. She could not imagine any of the heavy Poor Powder buyers handling such an item safely, considering what they had managed with the Door-Knocker.

The thought trying to parcel out some of the blame to Soleil was ignored. Although, Gabrielle did think that the end of the world would have been a bit more than dry oats and hay. By now she barely noticed the colt's tantrums. There was no point to his noisy protestations and noisier stomping. Gabrielle knew it all meant nothing, and she was in a snit herself. He would be far more upset if she had been frightened off, and anyway Gabrielle knew that the colt could see she carried a bottle.

The dessicated breakfast was Harry's fault, of course, but not really since Gabrielle doubted that he even knew of the whiskey. The condition of the stall, though, was another matter. She could see that only the front bit by the door had been cleaned at all, which was what a wand would reach if one remained outside the stall. That was a little disappointing, thought Gabrielle, from Harry Potter. That was also the reason there was a hole in the chair. The stall was like her favorite spot for a study carol in the library at Beauxbatons - a secluded place to wallow in a foul mood. Except the stall needed a thorough vanishing and airing. The first was easy now for Gabrielle. The second spell she was hopeless at, mostly because she was trying to guess an incantation. She then had the idea that the problem with the stall was simply a lack of ventilation, which could corrected by making a hole in the wall. Gabrielle had, however, simply not realized the resistance of the barren wood to the Wheeze. The prank, if one could call it that, had not stuck to the wall.

On the topic of blame, another thought argued that Ginny was at the root of the series of events that Gabrielle to her nearly losing her foot. Ginny had returned with a change of clothes and an attitude. The redhead somehow blamed Gabrielle for the injuries Harry had sustained. George had beaten a hasty retreat to, Gabrielle suspected, somewhere which was not a jewelry shop. He was not there to explain the lack of 'knickers' to his sister. Ginny's not so subtle jibes at French culture and tutting really grated on Gabrielle's nerves. Gabrielle could have described George's involvement in the lack of proper underwear, but there was no reason to poke that nest of doxies. Then, just when Gabrielle was about to give up on counting to keep calm and instead try to set Ginny on fire, the older girl taught Gabrielle a laundry spell. For 'hygiene', saying the word as if Gabrielle clearly had no knowledge of the word and was filthy.

That was all very annoying, especially since lately she often just happened - not through her own doing! - to be filthy. More annoying was that Ginny and the others, although they were not actually present, expected her to get the cup out of Stanislaw's chest. Emphatically expected, which was ridiculous on two points. First, Gabrielle could not see why she was involved at all. It had been the rat's to start with, and then Poisseux had taken it. Ginny was the one took it from the handbag, and then Hermione had given it to Professor Festeller. It was Harry who wanted now. At no point had Gabrielle expressed an interest in or a desire for the object, except in the sense that it had, after all, been in her handbag and therefore Ginny should not have been getting into it. This meant that she could see no justification for being responsible for its recovery. Second, since when was she supposed to be the expert in breaking into locked places? That, thought Gabrielle, was not a good reputation to have. It was not as if she ran around at home - okay, a sheepish thought interrupted, that was a poor example. And possibly going on about curse-breaking had probably not helped either. But Gabrielle had seen the chest several times, and the hinges were completely hidden. Not that she had been checking! That was her one trick, and she doubted that the heavy lock would be the same as the locks on the doors of Delacour Manor, or that the one spell she knew would work. Did Ginny really believe, like Festeller, that all Gabrielle needed to do was to stand next to something? Ridiculous! There was simply no way for her to get into -

Gabrielle looked at the hole in the chair. Merde - maybe it was possible.


	29. The Return

Chapter Twenty-nine - The Return

Soleil tossed his head and neighed loudly, stomping down with his front hooves perilously close to a pair of smaller feet, although ones protected by iron overshoes. The owner of the armored toes was patiently trying to quiet the Abraxan.

"Yes, Soleil, yes. It - was - fun. But now we must be quiet, you see?" calmed Gabrielle. She and the winged equine lurked - as much as a huge golden palomino with matching wings and an attitude could lurk - just near Stanislaw's tent. It was part of the plan.

Soleil bobbed his head and whinnied gleefully. And loudly, which was definitely not what Gabrielle had wanted and which made a mockery of Ginny's notion that animals would do as she asked. Gabrielle tried again. "We can not, eh, play the, eh, prank on that Stanislaw if you make people look at us." Another head bob. Of agreement? Another loud vocalization. Possibly he thought it funny, possibly he was just being contrary, probably he did not understand her at all.

Gabrielle gave up shushing the colt, and clipped Pepi-Z to her hair. Her locks were no longer dramatic, or comically curly. Just chewed and regrettably plain. The plan, which was part hers, part Harry Potter's, and mostly Ginny's, would still work. Hermione thought that the whole thing was unnecessarily risky. George did not have an opinion, because he was being forced to help Abby. Probably forced. Hopefully forced. Gabrielle could tell the plan would work by the way the hairs pricked on the back of her neck. It was a premonition! Of some sort - it was not like when she Saw the past. Everything had come together and arranged itself just so. The most important of those arranged parts, to Gabrielle at least, had been in the post from Papa. Her father had, correctly outraged over her treatment at the hands of the dismissed healer and her troll-sized suppository, sent a portkey and a stern note, on Ministry letterhead, for Festeller. It should have been a Howler in her opinion. The portkey meant that Gabrielle could slip away quickly after her role was over, and any questions afterwards would just be a vindictive attack on an innocent student. Anyway, it was Harry Potter. Things happened around him; everyone knew that. And Gabrielle had made her own, personal addendum to Ginny's plan. She had decided to take George with her when she used the portkey, since she was very certain Paris had many jewelry shops and hardly any Gleasson apparati.

Gabrielle was waiting for the diversion. Professor Festeller was giving one of his after-dinner lectures, and Hermione's task was to be there and ask questions as a delaying tactic. Most of those in camp would attend. Gabrielle always supposed that Stanislaw was forced to. She hoped that Hermione could come up with a lot of questions, because dinner had been a bit spartan. Helping Nona prepare the food had led to the day's first premonition. The normally laconic witch was distracted by her good crystal ball, which was usually only brought out when there were customers coming. While Gabrielle chopped vegetables and thin slivers of her own skin, Nona rifled through her chests and barrels, bringing forth small trinkets that she would hold up to Gabrielle's face. Most were quickly put away again, but a mummified leg of a toad and a sliver of mirror held in silver wire replaced the weird claw on the thin chain around Gabrielle's neck. It was the look of worry on the crone's face that raised the hairs on what that encircled. Gabrielle knew that the old witch could See. It was understanding what she Saw that was the problem.

"Fëmijë, ju duhet të qëndrojnë me atë kërriçin. Dhe ju të dëgjoni zhabës," Nona had advised solemnly. At least, Gabrielle thought it was advice. She had nodded as if it were the wisdom of the ages and smiled in a way that hopefully meant 'yes, of course'. Gabrielle suspected that she had not managed it, though, since Nona had just sighed and turned away.

Dinner was quick; Nona was nervous. It was no surprise at all, then, that the old witch's cottage had vanished soon afterwards. That was premonition enough for Gabrielle. She had the wand from her Grandmere, the knife from Gaston, and her handbag. She had Pepi-Z, and Lieutenant Mimsey was perched nearby, which meant that she had almost all of her things at hand. The squirrel Sauveret scampered boldly near the owl. As helpful as he had been, Gabrielle hoped that he did not see himself as her latest pet. Only her favorite wand and Poisseux were unaccounted for.

Having all her things at hand also meant that she had the charmed apron. Gabrielle would save that until the diversion began. The presence of Soleil would keep the others in camp away, but only if she was with the colt, which was somehow more worrying to her fellow witches and wizards than Soleil on his own.

v - v - v - v - v

"(Where did you get these from?)" asked the voice of Harry Potter. He sounded quite impressed. The teen himself was invisible, unless one laid on the ground. Then his scuffed trainers could be seen. A reasonably sensitive nose could also smell them, out to a distance of two feet. The course on Magics of the Domicile had not been on anyone's syllabus for a decade.

"(From George's shirt - he never does empty his pockets for laundry,)" said Ginny. "(I let the three bats he had go. Mum complained all the time about those two and what she would find.)"

"(He had those in his shirt?)" These were three of the largest Wildfire Door-Knockers he had ever seen.

"(Yes, Harry. In a - magic - pocket.)"

"(Oh, er, right.)"

"(Dead easy to make, 'ccording to Hermione,)" claimed Ron. He was dressed as a mountain troll. A very small troll, with a glamour that made him ugly enough but did not quite hide his freckles or red hair. This was, in the opinion of the diminutive troll himself, an important addition to the overall scheme. "(The pocket, I mean. Unless you want 'em to last. And you don't wanna know what's on the other side.)"

"(I don't?)" asked Harry. "(Why not?)"

"(Why ask me? I didn't want to know.)"

"(You are such an arse, Weasley.)"

"(Call Ginny that again I swear I'll thrash you!)"

"(Shut up, the both of you,)" said Ginny. "(You take this one, Harry; I'll get the other two.)"

"(Oy! What about me?)" asked the ersatz troll. "(I get one too, right?)"

"(Very natural disguise for you, innit?)" asked Ginny, rolling her eyes. "(How're you supposed to get about unnoticed looking like that? You just concentrate on not getting blown up, right?)"

The advice was left unacknowledged because Ron was now wrestling with an unseen opponent who had burst out laughing.

v - v - v - v - v

Severus Snape had, decades ago, moved up through the ranks of the Death Eaters by deed and, mostly, cunning. It had been a dangerous time, a difficult time, and had been entirely misguided. Rising up through this lot, Snape considered, surveying the Dark Lord's recruits, no, mob before him, would have been but an afternoon's work. The unsteady, but upright, figure of Pettigrew included. Pettigrew clearly had not yet recovered from target practice. As the target.

The smaller figure of the Dark Lord conversed with a tall, thickly built wizard with a full, black beard. The wizard, Russian, as far as Snape could make out, was the only one worth a wand. The other four were wizards in the sense that they were not muggles. Snape understood that the five were expected to provide a distraction, but he doubted that even Weasley would have much trouble dispatching these dunderheads. At least they had confidence in their abilities, though that was more due to the potion stirred into their drink than accurate self-assessment.

Severus sighed and looked across the waving fields of ripening grain to the clustered tents. He could see, and hear, the Abraxan, and idly wondered what the farmers in the house beyond made of the noise. The peculiar young girl stood casually next to the boisterous animal. His eyes narrowed with long experience - she stood the way a student about to cause trouble would stand.

v - v - v - v - v

The only thing in Merlin's realm that was more annoying than an angry Abraxan was, thought Gabrielle, a bored Abraxan. Actually, argued a second thought, many things were more annoying. There were nasty teapots, the school brooms, and thin-walled cauldrons, for example. Including people, there was Festeller, Fleur, Aunt Laurel, Lucretia, and even Ginny at times.

The only thing more annoying - and currently present - than an angry Abraxan, Gabrielle started again, was a bored Abraxan. Had it even been ten minutes yet? She had tried to entertain Soleil by reading him the other letters that had come in the package from Papa. Now she held three-quarters of a note from Fleur, and would never know the names her sister was considering for the baby because the last quarter was being ground to pulp by Soleil's huge molars. There was sure to be a test, too. Gabrielle sighed. She was certain Fleur would ask her opinion only to help decide what not to choose.

The colt had enjoyed the earlier letter from her best friend Monique. Enjoyed listening to it, that is. Possibly that was because it contained a descriptive list of plants that could make comfortable cloth, or a good equine snack. Seemed to enjoy, Gabrielle decided, otherwise it implied that Soleil understood. Although, he had bobbed his head when she had read the part where Monique discovered that her new fashions were composting in her wardrobe. His reaction, Gabrielle assumed, was simply due to the way she had read it. Monique also wrote, of course, with her advise that Gabrielle get more sun, since she was so pale.

The last short note was from Silvain. Again. He had returned with his family from vacation and was looking forward to the new term. Gabrielle tried to interest Soleil in the parchment, but he appeared to have temporarily had his fill of the inedible.

Pepi-Z jerked in his tether, so Gabrielle quit trying to stuff the note into Soleil's mouth and looked around. She could not see anyone, but the red bobble that was the remains of her pet had never been wrong. This was the reason Gabrielle was able to see the first explosion, a very, very loud, very bright, and very beautiful fireball. The vast globe was bright yellow with swirls of orange, and it hung around long enough for one to notice that, which meant it was magic. It was the diversion!

A frightened whinny drew Gabrielle's attention from the wonderful flames. She now spotted a small flaw in the plan - Pepi-Z was not the only one on a tether. If Soleil bolted, she would be dragged along behind him or would end up dangling below. "In here, Soleil!" she shouted, pulling hard on the tether in the direction of the curse-breaker's tent. "We will, eh, eh, wait in here." Gabrielle had nearly said hide, which would have certainly set off Soleil's contrariness. That is, if he could understand her, because she did not talk with animals.

Another explosion lit the early evening sky. It was blue-green, judging by the light reflected back from the tent. Soleil reared, jerking Gabrielle into the air. She landed just before the colt's tremendous front hooves did, and those hooves buried her iron-protected foot a dozen centimeters into the ground. There was a lot of shouting now, and Gabrielle knew it would be best to wear the apron, but there was no use in even trying until Soleil was settled. She pulled at the leather tether again and shouted. Soleil yanked her free of the soil, and her footwear.

This behavior, Gabrielle decided, was stupid and that Soleil had no business being frightened of something so far away. She aimed a slap at his huge muzzle. "What is this? Oh mon Dieu, Montaigne would not be afraid!"

The outburst got the colt's attention, and a spark of pride at least momentarily quieted the animal. Gabrielle started for Stanislaw's tent. She was certain that a real curse-breaker would not have to hop. The diversion was certainly doing its job. Gabrielle could see spells flying past the tents. That had not been any part of the plan that she could remember, and she definitely had not expected the screams. There was supposed to be a third explosion though. It would be needed if Soleil did not intend to follow her.

Fortunately, Soleil was following, and closely. Gabrielle had stopped short after entering the tent; Soleil had not. She got back up, and guessed that the Abraxan had remembered that they were to play a 'prank' on Stanislaw. Thinking of pranks, though, Gabrielle wondered if she were in the middle of one herself. There were toads everywhere inside the tent! No, Gabrielle corrected herself, there were a lot of toads in the tent, but just around the chest. If she had to guess, she would say that the damp little creatures were trying to tip the thing over. That was, in her opinion, very optimistic, given a toad's general stumpiness. And not very toad-like. Gabrielle doubted that there were toad tidbits in there. Pepi-Z jumped excitedly where he was clipped to her hair.

"Oh! Poisseux! There you are!" exclaimed Gabrielle. He may have been a Bad Toad lately, but she would not leave without him. Poisseux was straining at the chest - he did not even eat toad tidbits. Zombie pets were a great savings when it came to feed. Gabrielle snatched him up and tucked him safely into her handbag.

And thus, Lord Dureseches and his Wormeaters suffered their first defeat. It was Lord Dureseches because Posi-sex-u was just not going to work.

v - v - v - v - v

Harry Potter spotted a familiar figure, and called out hoarsely, "What's going on?" He remained hidden by the invisibility cloak.

"Yargh! Bleahg!"

"Ron, it's me. Where's Ginny? Where's Hermione? Why isn't anyone coming this way?"

"'Cuz I'm doing too good a job? Bleagh!"

Harry lowered the cloak so he could stare incredulously at his best mate. The troll glamour had obviously been deep enough to affect his brain. "Don't be thick, Ron. The shouting should be over here. Let's go find the girls."

v - v - v - v - v

Gabrielle scrutinized the chest. The chest, it seemed, scrutinized her in return, malevolently enough that she decided to scrutinize the scattering toads instead. Being toads, they had not managed to scatter very far yet. Why would toads, especially plain, boring, regular toads, even bother with a chest? Why, wondered Gabrielle, were they trying to tip it over? A second thought noted, with a touch of smugness, that obviously the amphibians were simply too squat to reach the lid, surely something that other thoughts should have picked up on. Gabrielle picked up a fat brown toad, and asked, not actually expecting an answer of course, "Why were you, eh, doing that?"

The toad said nothing, as a toad should, but turned its head so its black eye could see the handbag. "Ah," said Gabrielle, though no useful thought followed that. "He is, eh, safe in there. We will be leaving soon." She put the toad back down, then slapped another from Soleil's thick lips. "That is - not - food," she scolded the colt.

Although the conversation had been brief, and not a conversation at all really, it had told Gabrielle quite a lot. Mostly, it had told her that Poisseux had been in charge. He was not after toad tidbits; he was after the cup too! Which, thought Gabrielle, made the collective action at the chest important because Poisseux was a very intelligent, if decidedly wayward, toad. That was logic, and logic was a talent of hers.

So, overturning the chest was the first step. That, reasoned Gabrielle, probably meant that she should not touch the chest. She circled around behind it, where she had recaptured Poisseux. There, at least, the brass-bound oak did not look so accusingly at her. Gabrielle put her foot on the lid and kicked out.

Her toes remained attached only because of the unpaired iron overshoe, which blocked the long thin blade that sliced across the gap where the lid met the bottom. Said pedicure shield now had a gleaming nick on the side, and Gabrielle had been spun to the floor by the slashing edge. That, thought Gabrielle, was completely uncalled for! What kind sort of person would own a chest like that?

A curse-breaker, answered a voice in Gabrielle's head that sounded very Fleur-like. A curse-breaker who could sell what was in the chest for hundreds of galleons and did not want to lose that to a silly little girl. Gabrielle frowned. It had not been, in the shock of the moment, perhaps, the brightest of questions, but she should not have to listen to that from herself. Gabrielle stood back up and untangled herself from the tether, an action which reminded her that she was still wearing it. She wriggled out of the leather straps, then discovered another small flaw in her plan, which was actually quite a large, fresh, steaming pile. Even without Soleil's fragrant contribution, anyone with a nose would know that an Abraxan had been in the tent.

Gabrielle vanished the dung and, unintentionally, because her rustic wand with the twist thought it could do more, a small throw rug. That had been ugly and rather dirty anyway, but it was not helpful. Soleil, for his part, was just shuffling nervously, at least until Gabrielle picked up the twig doll from Nona that Stanislaw had kept. She put it into the handbag, then gave Soleil a withering look. He missed her disapproval, and licked the side of her face from chin to hairline. It was not helpful either.

The chest was still upright - Gabrielle's attempt had only rocked it. If Philippe, her squib childhood friend, were here, thought Gabrielle, he would have one of his thin metal bars to use. All she had was a wand...

The search for something to transfigure took but a moment, and would have taken even less time had there not been a knot of toads clambering over her selection. It was, well, it - appeared - to be a simple cane. The important thing about the item was that it was made of wood and was not too thick. It was also pretty close to the needed shape already. Gabrielle focused on the smooth, polished shaft, and touched her wand to it. She could feel the magic flow, the wand surge, the - Wham!

Gabrielle reeled and flung the cane away. The hand she put to her nose came away smeared with blood. It was something felt instead of seen, as she was blinded by the pain. Merde! More annoyed with her usual luck than anything else, she nonetheless glared at the toads through her watering eyes, all the while pressing the sides of her nose to staunch the bleeding. The toads had clawed the handle of the cane away from the lower shaft, revealing a bright blade. Not that Gabrielle much noticed. She was now worrying over a clicking from her nose. Oh mon Dieu, was, was it broken?

Soleil nudged Gabrielle forward toward the earnest amphibians. There was no way to ignore that - his head was larger than her torso. But she was no longer interested in the toads, the cane, or any stupid plan. She knew she would have to see the creepy healer before she could use the portkey, or Maman would be livid. Gabrielle stomped over to the chest, which did not really work with one foot clad only in a sock, and peeled the paper backing from the black disk. She intended to drop the W-hole onto the top of the evil chest, whose rivets conveyed a mix of anger and dismay, but it slipped from her fingers and fell.

Gabrielle hurled herself back, legs splaying to the side. Definitely not the best idea for a prank! She stumbled backwards into Soleil, who raised his head suddenly in surprise, lifting Gabrielle high into the air. The black rubbery disk landed on the front edge of the alarmed chest, sliding down the front with a nasty sizzling sound, and stopping when it reached what was now half a toad. Gabrielle landed on her backside much closer to the sundered chest than she wanted,

Dozens of horrified beady black eyes and brass rivets watched Gabrielle as she got back off the floor again. "I'm sorry!" blurted Gabrielle. Certainly she had not intended to hurt, eh, kill the poor toad, but even the damage to the chest was more than she had intended. Although, was there even such a thing as a polite magically gouged hole?

Gabrielle once more drew out the rustic wand with its alleged metacore. She retreated from the disapproving stares, then leapt forward, jabbing the wand at the chest, "Accio Harry's stupid thing!"

Nothing even twitched in the depths of the bisected chest. There had to a powerful ward or something still protecting the contents, thought Gabrielle, though a different thought suggested an equally likely possibility, since it had heard, "Accio Habby's stubid thig!" due to the swelling of her nose.

Gabrielle tried several more times, but the stumbling block was "cub". The remembered glimpse of teeth and her childhood trauma made her really dread the idea of reaching into the chest directly. There did not seem to be another option though. The varied toads gathered together, and set themselves at an expectant angle. Gabrielle had not anticipated having an audience. If they only knew how hard this was, thought Gabrielle as she looked at them. At least they were Albanian toads - who would they tell? That certainly took the pressure away, though for some reason Nona's dour face popped into Gabrielle's head.

Her squat, damp audience, Gabrielle realized, were not really looking at her, but her handbag. That was a talent in itself, touted a proud thought, considering the general beadiness of the dark eyes and their limited stereoscopic vision. It was not a particularly valuable talent, she had to admit, but it gave her a hint. Gabrielle slid her finger along the top of the soft liner of the handbag to unseal it, and brought out Poisseux.

The assembled toads cheered Poisseux's appearance, with as much enthusiasm in the tiny jerks and twitches as Gabrielle had ever seen. The faux toad did not acknowledge the throng, but focussed pointedly on the remains of his fallen minion.

"Id, eh, was an accidend. And I hab addoligized already," said Gabrielle hurriedly. Then, slightly put out that a Bad Toad was making her feel even more guilty, Gabrielle decided to assert herself. "Ged the cub! Eh, if id is, eh, safe." After all, the spellotape toad was her second oldest pet. He was also, technically, already dead, so Gabrielle thought it was probably safe. She held him by his longer rear legs, and eased Poisseux into the interior of the chest.

Nothing happened. This was probably due to the fact that a toad's longer rear legs are only longer in comparison to their front legs, which means that they are not very long at all. Poisseux could not reach. Or did not want to. He might just be petulant, thought Gabrielle. At the other end of the wand, though, he had really wanted that cup before.

Gabrielle dipped into the handbag again, this time bringing out the amazing muggle knife, which could, eh, be transfigured, in the muggle way, into pliers. With the ridged metal jaws gripping Poisseux's feet, Gabrielle pushed the zombie toad further into the distressed-looking chest. Another guilty thought wondered if her pet really did not feel pain. She had assumed that he did not since he was made of spellotape, but she knew she had not bothered to check.

Pepi-Z, her oldest pet, also, in a way, dead, jumped wildly on his thread. This startled Gabrielle much less than the violent sound of an Abraxan kicking something to pieces, which had followed Pepi-Z's warning immediately. That crash was enough that she lost her grip on Poisseux. He disappeared into the shadows within the chest.

One would have to be a silly little girl, decided the Fleur-like thought, to call this escapade anything but a complete fiasco.

v - v - v - v - v

Harry found Ginny laying on the floor of the Abraxan's stall, curled around the remaining firework. Harry could not decide which indicated her condition being worse - the dirty bedding or the hair-trigger explosive she clutched. He knelt down to the stricken redhead, first doing a quick bit of vanishing, and gently lifted her head. "Gin? Are you all right Gin?"

Ginny groaned and covered her eyes with her arm. "I'm fine. Just, just a bit of a headache."

Harry could see now why no one believed him when he said such things. "Ginny, look at me. Are you all right?" He noticed some blood crusting her nose.

"No. If I look then - He - will see."

"What? Who will see?"

"You-Know-Who."

"Erm, no, I don't think I... Oh, uh, right," said Harry. The hope that he had not sounded too dim was quickly replaced by the fear that he, they, had been fatally naive. Why had they convinced themselves that only Wormtail would need to be dealt with? "Ginny, will you be all right here for a bit? I need to find Ron, Hermione, and George, and warn the others."

"I'm all right until Nibbles comes with 'zee famous flying horse'," said Ginny. She sounded better to Harry's ears, but then she winced.

"Nibbles? Oh Merlin, I forgot about her!"

"She'll be near George, you can bet on it," muttered Ginny. "He's close," she added.

"That's good. I think Hermione is still with that professor in the tent. If there wasn't a bloody hole in the ground it'd be dead easy to get there," said Harry.

"Not George - Him. You-Know-Who," corrected Ginny, shaking her head slightly.

"It's Vol-"

"No!" exclaimed Ginny. "Don't say the name. He'll hear."

"I really don't like this," said Harry under his breath.

v - v - v - v - v

The Dark Lord took in the ruined circled carved into the stone. It was an interesting curiosity, and the runes along the edges looked like early incarnations of more familiar ones, but the whole of it was either poorly done or an elaborate sham. He wondered of the wizard whose tower the work had once been part of. Had the circle's creator strove for more, or had he been content to muddle along like the nearly useless drudges above trying to provide the distraction? The skeletal remains carefully stacked to one side provided no clue.

Thinking of distractions led him to one, and Lord Voldemort gave a thought to the gaudy explosions. Those were unlikely to be from his ad hoc allies, who had shown no propensity for independent thought so far. Neither had Pettigrew, but then he was more rat than wizard. Severus was capable of the act, but the ostentatiousness would be out of character. Besides, the potions master had been assigned the profitless task of protecting the witless wand-wavers. No, concluded the Dark Lord with certainty, it was nothing but an amateurish attempt at a diversion. That meant that Potter was trying to make his own move. A situation that required some subtlety, as he did not yet possess his true wand, the Elder Wand. Only then, smiled the Dark Lord as he savored the thought, would Potter be vanquished and his ultimate destiny be obtained. For now, though, a bit more haste.

v - v - v - v - v

Gabrielle emerged from Stanislaw's tent as Poisseux had emerged from the eviscerated chest: backwards and slowly. This was because she was dragging a reluctant Abraxan and not the prized drinkware. Dragging in the sense that she was pulling on the tether; it was Soleil in the end who decided to advance or not. When it was clear that she was going to leave and take Poisseux with her, his little amphibious followers set themselves at such a plaintive angle that Gabrielle felt sorry for having to abandon them. She tried to explain that she could not carry all of them, knowing, of course, that it was useless since they could not understand. The toads then assembled themselves into an unexpected hoop, each one holding its neighbor's foot in its mouth. The living necklace was around Gabrielle's neck now, and was heavier than one would think and scratchy from tiny claws. Toads, the thought came to Gabrielle, were very troublesome pets.

Gabrielle had done what she could to hide the evidence of her, eh, prank, but there was a limit to what vanishing and a dozen pathetic Reparo spells could do. A thought with more self-esteem amended that to unpracticed Reparo spells. She would of course do better next time. Stanislaw was not stupid, though, so it was time to find Harry Potter. And, more importantly, George. Gabrielle hoped that the portkey was set for Delacour Manor and not Papa's office. If Maman was off to Chamoix for the day, well, a lot of summer holiday could be packed into that day.

First though, she needed to recover her footwear. Which, a second thought was forced to suggest, may not have needed to be a priority. There were still spells flying back and forth, as evidenced by the flashes lighting the sides of the tents. Those were making Soleil nervous, and that was a short broom ride to rampage. Which actually, argued another thought, provided a justification for her actions, though putting one through the hoops over herself was not helpful now. Especially since vanishing away the soil like she had seen done by the wizards working the dig was much, much slower than digging out the trapped iron overshoe and her regular shoe by hand. While she tried once more, Pepi-Z suddenly tugged in her hair, and Soleil reared and flailed his hooves over her. Gabrielle gave up on the magic and yanked her shoes from where they were buried, and action that happily put her further from the rampant Soleil.

"Nicht sie jetzt, Dämon," grunted the worst possible voice to hear. Gabrielle shut her eyes and cursed silently. It was Stanislaw! It was Stanislaw, and the apron was on the ground next to her, stupidly wrapped around Poisseux and the stolen cup instead of being worn. The quick thought that, from a Ministry point of view, the object had not really ever been his and was, therefore, not actually stolen but merely recovered did not provide any comfort. The Ministry did not reach here and there would be no help for the vandalism in any case. Gabrielle took a steadying breath, and counted on a Veela's smile. Veela-ish smile. Before she could turn, a wall of earth erupted from the ground between her and Soleil.

Gabrielle snatched up the bundled apron and put the dirty shoes on top. Soleil's instincts kicked in and the earthen wall shuddered, sending a rivulet of pebbles and dirt down its flank. She turned to face Stanislaw, buoyed by the thought that Soleil would probably soon start on the tent, which would help hide the evidence. Except for the slightly destroyed chest. Her smile turned to shock; Stanislaw was bleeding badly from a slash at his shoulder. "You are hurd!" she blurted, genuinely concerned. And confused - why would Harry and the others do this?

"Ja. Some schwein is throwing cutting curses and - Merlin's schließmuskel! You are hurt also?" asked Stanislaw, looking at her more closely. Gabrielle had not cleaned the blood from her face.

"Id is notting. Dere were de, eh, explosions, and Soleil..." offered Gabrielle vaguely. Implying was not the same as lying, even if the one was inside the other. She went back to smiling.

"It looks broken. I am looking for old Leistenverletzunger - his elf is not answering. Come along, liebchen," said Stanislaw. He frowned now and sighed as both he and Soleil realized that the tent was more vulnerable. Gabrielle gently explored her nose. It was definitely swollen - was it crooked as well?

"(Tell you what, I'll take it from here,)" announced - George! He had appeared from around the side of the tent. "(All part of the flash life of a beater, you know. I must have fixed Fred's beak a hundred times.)" Was there a hint of firewhiskey?

Gabrielle took a moment to work out how she could tell George that there was no need to worry, that they would soon be in France and near Paris where the healers were amazing and sympathetic. Without, of course, sounding too much like Allie. What she got out was, "Aiee!" That was because George took the very same moment to pinch the end of Gabrielle's nose between his thumb and forefinger, and then, with a tap of his wand, to stretch her nose suddenly to three times its normally demure length. That was a painful surprise, but not as painful as when he let it snap back.

Gabrielle found words easier to come by now. "('Ave you lost your senses?! Zat 'urt! Very much!)" And it had, but it did not now. In fact, a cautious probe revealed that the swelling had gone. "(Eh, I, eh, was not ready,)" she added sheepishly.

"(You would prefer that prat and his mallet? A little knock like that is nothing to see a healer about,)" said George. "(That gash now...)" He turned to look at Stanislaw's wound more closely, and Gabrielle wished that she had not spoken so sharply. She wished that she had been more grateful, and maybe just a little more pathetic, so George would still be comforting her. Would start comforting her, corrected a disappointed thought.

Still, he was here, so Gabrielle did not want to lose him. "(Can you, eh, help Herr Sammlermacher?)"

"(Poo-tetra. I could do something about the bleeding, sure, but a healer would have a better go at closing it up right,)" said George.

A hoof the size of a dustbin lid punched through the compacted dirt of the wall. Stanislaw offered a tired smile. "Stay with your friend, liebchen. Take the Abraxan back to his stall, and find somewhere to hide. The remaining barn, perhaps, if you can avoid burning it down."

The barb should have bothered Gabrielle more, but she had transfigured 'friend' to 'boyfriend' in her head. If even Stanislaw could see it, then it must be obvious to everyone else. She did not have to worry about George's continued lack of overt devotion. His heart was still hers! She looked up at George and smiled warmly with the thought, then slipped her arm around her future husband's. The unsuspecting groom, still not displaying any sign of his otherwise obvious love, nor any sign that he noticed her approach, turned abruptly and jostled Gabrielle. The shoes and the apron, and what the apron was bundled around, fell from where the arm not occupied with George's failed to hold it. "Merde!" exclaimed Gabrielle, forgetting the romance of the moment.

"(Sorry luv. Nice toads by the way,)" said George. "(No doubt you know what the excitement's about?)" He bent down to pick up the fallen items.

"(Non! Leave zem!)" blurted Gabrielle. "(I, eh, I will get zem.)" She pulled at his arm, but it was too late. George straightened up holding the shoes and the apron. What the apron held tumbled onto the ground.

"Was ist das?" Asked Stanislaw, surprised by what Poisseux was once more determinedly dragging away.

"Oh, eh, there you are Poisseux! Bad toad!" bluffed Gabrielle. She reached for her pet at the same time Stanislaw, wincing, reached for the cup. Each came up with what they intended; a tap from the curse-breaker's wand separated the two. Gabrielle feigned relief instead of showing the disappointment she felt.

Stanislaw did not look convinced. Especially after listening pointedly to the commotion behind his conjured wall. "We will speak of this later, Fräulein Delacour."

Gabrielle did not worry about his ominous words for several reasons. One was that she still had the letter from Papa and the portkey. It could be a very long time before they spoke of it. Another reason was the pleased look on George's face, as if he had figured out what she had done. A more immediate reason was the disappearance of the solid dirt wall, once Stanislaw was well away, that had contained the now very annoyed Soleil. The final reason was the smaller figure that almost seemed to waft up and out of the expedition's dig. The boy struck the retreating curse-breaker with a spell. Gabrielle could see new wounds open up as Stanislaw fell.

"Oh bugger," said George, who was looking instead at a lathered Abraxan with spread wings and fiery, mad eyes.

Gabrielle nearly shouted, nearly screamed, but her brain forced a memory to the fore. Run, her thoughts urged her, except the same memory that showed her the danger froze her in fear. "Ti - Tibault!" blurted Gabrielle, much to the disappointment of her higher functions. He had come for her! He had come to take revenge!

The boy turned at her exclamation, both, it seemed, abruptly and reluctantly. There was now no doubt in Gabrielle's mind. It was the same awful Tibault Granecole who had attacked Natuche, only alive and well and not at all dying from a unicorn goring. And he had a wand at the ready. This time Gabrielle did scream as her former victim's face lit with recognition.

Dual pops echoed in the air. George stole a glance at the agonized curse-breaker even as the equine doom nearer to him bellowed. He gave Soleil a mischievous grin. "Well Sunshine, come on if you think you're hard enough."


	30. Nearly As Bad As Possible

Chapter Thirty - Nearly As Bad As Possible

Behind an upturned table that was probably as useless as a defense as the one that had been shredded earlier sat a young witch with frazzled, bushy hair. Effort was beginning to show itself as a sheen of perspiration on a brow already creased with worry. The Sgiath Bubble spell would hold a little while longer; would she herself be able to without some help? What - did - they teach at Beauxbatons? The only wizard of any real use was that curse-breaker, and he had been wounded when an unlucky cutting curse slipped through.

The witch, Hermione Granger, spotted the ruddy cheeks of the professor peeking out from behind another table, and tried again. "Herr Professor - "

"You are doing, yes, an excellent job," encouraged Festeller, his face redder than usual.

"Yes, very good, thank you. I need a little help," said Hermione. Again.

"I am certain, yes, Herr Sammlermacher will return, yes, shortly. You are doing well."

"Perhaps the other two?" The curse-breaker's cohorts watched from two chairs, the only furnishing not redeployed as fortifications, occasionally sharing a laugh.

"Nein. Security duties, yes, are not in their contract," insisted Festeller. He shrugged his shoulders. Business was business.

"What? There are wizards trying to kill us!" argued Hermione.

"I am certain, yes, it is just the local, yes, thieves." The professor ducked his head as the magical shield flashed a sickly yellow.

Local thieves with a bit of talent - the Sgiath was beginning to waver already. Hermione felt safe in assuming that You-Know-Who was behind the attack. There was just no proof at the moment. The goal seemed to be to keep the company bottled up. Surely, she thought, Professor Festeller could see that as well? Even if they were - only - thieves, did he have a plan to stop them? It was an obvious question, so she asked it.

"The chest, yes, that holds the artifacts is, yes, difficult," replied Festeller. "It will not open easily."

Hermione repeated his answer to herself, trying to find some sense in it. What about the other magical equipment? The lenses? And while the chest might be difficult to open, would it be as difficult to simply take? These were more obvious questions, but the Bubble spell had failed. Anyway, there was a more important question: where was Ron?

v - v - v - v - v

The last wizard the world needed found himself, unexpectedly, back at the edge of the darkened woods, looking across the fields of grain to the cluster of tents. He had apparated to this spot, the spontaneous sort of apparition that one might see done by a wizard child. Lord Voldemort thought hard. A jolt of panic had coursed through him at the sight of the girl. That made no sense - she was only a child, and one covered in toads at that. That was quite likely to be merely a coincidence; perhaps a powerful unsettling charm from an undetected opponent had struck him just then.

Yet the Dark Lord knew that that was not the case. Lord Voldemort knows. The remembered sight of the slight girl, the sound of the beast, was enough to bring forth a wave of anxiety. It had to come from the residual essence of his current vessel. The internal manifestation had caught him off-guard, and had happened at the most inconvenient moment. He would be forced to spare some effort to watch for and suppress this other. Resolved, Lord Voldemort determined his destination, and turned, with deliberation.

v - v - v - v - v

Gabrielle found herself, quite suddenly and unexpectedly, slipping down the sloping top of a tent. She grabbed for the central post that some manner of flag flew from, which prevented her from dropping off the edge. Tibault was gone, but so were George and Soleil. Soleil was not gone per se, she could easily hear him. She would be very angry with the colt if he hurt George.

Gabrielle knew, from going Side-Along with Papa, that she had managed to apparate herself. That was a small bit of good news to consider later, since seeing Aunt Laurel's face would be of little consolation if Granecole found her and killed her. Or did worse - poor Natuche! Dread chilled Gabrielle bowels, so she pulled herself up closer to pole to see where she was - the metric ton! The pennant flying from the pole wrapped itself around her face with a change in the breeze. She pulled -

Gabrielle pulled back the rent robes. The angry, mottled skin and the distorted shape of the leg confirmed that it had been Grindelwald, or one of his close allies, wielding the wand. Still, the witch was luckier than the poor bastard breathing his last the next cot over. The leg looked lost, and likely the lower arm too. If the decidedly fetching witch had taken the curse to her shapely chest like her compatriot, well, there was no way to unscramble a heart or a pair of lungs. Gabrielle exposed more of her patient's leg. She needed to see how far up the curse had reached. Beads of sweat broke out on her brow as frilled edges appeared against silky skin. A complete examination was allowed - needed! - under these circumstances. She reached for the elasticized band, and tried to ignore the polite pop behind her. "Pardon Blackig..."

"Pardon Blackig, mademoiselle, but Blackig is thinking you are going to fall."

With the Past, which she could See, and the present blurring, Gabrielle stared dumbly at the wizened house-elf, until the pressure on her wrist cleared the fog. The house-elf gripped the main post with one hand and Gabrielle's wrist in the other. Her legs dangled off the edge. "The flag is made of underwear?"

"Healer Leistenverletzunger's excellent work saved a young witch's limbs. The witch was very grateful, as many as three times in one day. Healer Leistenverletzunger said it was a banner day, so Blackig made one."

"Eh, what? What does that mean?" asked Gabrielle. "And you can let go now."

"Pardon Blackig, but Blackig is still thinking you are going to fall." The house-elf did not loosen his grip on her wrist.

Gabrielle tried to shake her arm free. A wizard tent was bigger on the inside, not the outside. She had fallen much farther from Fleur's broom and was sure she would have been fine, mostly fine, probably fine if she had not landed on the iron fence with its stupid spiky parts. Anyway, George needed her. And Soleil. Mostly Soleil, if she had the time to be precise about it. "Let go of me!"

"Pardon Blackig, but - "

"No! Do you plan to stay like that forever? Herr Sammlermacher is hurt, Soleil is loose, and my, eh, boyfriend needs me!" argued Gabrielle. While the last was apparent to everyone, saying it so loudly caused a ridiculous blush to color her cheeks. When had Fleur ever blushed?

The old house-elf, his wrinkled arms pulled taut between the pole and Gabrielle, wrinkled his brow as he pondered the idea for a moment before pulling Gabrielle further from the edge.

"No! Down! I want to go down!" insisted Gabrielle.

Gabrielle got her wish a second later, when the house-elf gave her a very firm push and disappeared. She slid helplessly down the sloped fabric, the tauter edge catching at the last moment to pitch her into the air. Gabrielle remained confident that the fall would not kill her, but, as her trajectory turned to a downward path, she was not as confident that it would not hurt. How to land needing the least healing was the question, and so far landing on her nose seemed to be the best answer. Perhaps, a hurried second thought urged, Skele-Gro is not - that - bad?

In the end, Gabrielle's indecisive landing posture did not matter. Blackig reappeared, this time hanging from the edge of the tent and snatching at her leg. Creaking joints and tendons were drawn tight, and Gabrielle's downward momentum became the arc of a pendulum until the straining house-elf let go again. Gabrielle was thrown through the tent flap, and at considerable speed. She tumbled across the floor feeling like she was in a game of Petangue, only in reverse, where she was the cochonnet heading for the heavy boules that were the stacks of clutter.

Or, as it was in this case, the legs of the two elderly wizards arguing with each other in German. These were Healer Listen-For-It-Hunger and Herr Von Sneaky-lips, and they turned out to be very heavy.

v - v - v - v - v

Severus Snape, a man, a wizard, who had longed for years to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts, was, to a great extent, bored. His assignment was to provide protection for the gibbering idiots flinging barely half-formed curses in the general direction of the tents. It had become a trivial task, since there had not been so much as an Expelliarmus from the opposing wands for some time. There was so little to do that Snape had allowed himself the small pleasure of testing the rather arcane shield spell presented. A middling effort, by his judgement. Sufficient for the rabble he accompanied, but merely a delaying tactic for those trained by the Dark Lord.

Snape could easily guess that the shield had been cast by one Hermione Granger. The spell was archaic, intricate, and disused; the sort of spell one would only read about in dusty tomes. A bookworm would most likely come across it, and it would also take more than a modicum of prowess to even cast. So, the Granger girl was performing the same role as himself for those in the tent. But the spells returned from the besieged were more exotic than powerful, which left off the dolts Potter and Weasley from the list of wand wielders. The danger there lay in Potter's cloak. And, unfortunately, that the dunce might run into the Dark Lord. His luck would have to run out one day.

A startled cry caught the former professor off-guard, and he turned toward the tumult, fully expecting to be flanked by the now-exposed Potter. The useless mob raised by the Dark Lord was scurrying for the cover of the distant woods. In the lead, and outpacing his fellow cowards, was the black-bearded Russian. The shouts of "Një këndoj! Një këndoj!" were not illuminating. Had there even been an exchange of spells? Snape stepped forward warily and, mindful of his opponent's cloak, listened for any extra rustling of the field's grain while thoroughly scrutinizing the empty air.

Which was why he did not immediately notice the runty troll crouching among the crop. A runty troll with reddish hair, freckles, and a wand. "Bleagh! Yargle! _Percussum__!_"

The blow, even partially blocked by an instinctive shield, was substantial. Snape was knocked to his hands and knees. Only briefly, but long enough for a successful disarming spell. He gathered himself up with a practiced dignity that came from never admitting error in front of a class, and stood. "(Well done, Weasley. It would seem that your true nature has come forth at last,)" said Snape drily. He bent, with studied nonchalance, to pick up his lost wand. The stick jumped and tumbled just beyond his grasp.

"(Ah, rum go, there, Snivellus. You almost had it,)" snorted Ron. Another flick of his wand tossed the other a step or two further away.

Snape could feel the rage build inside himself at the old taunt. More for what it implied was known than for the delivery itself. There was no opportunity to vent the anger, at least not yet, so he shut it away. "(This explains your marks at the very least. Molly was obviously very adventurous in her youth. Unless, of course, you are the adopted bastard of Arthur's exotic predilections?)"

"(Blimey, it's just like I'm in ruddy double potions again! You keep talking and I have no clue what you're on about,)" complained the fake troll.

Infuriating yet subtle slurs, delivered with just the right amount of snark, might not have the desired effect on one who could say that out loud. It might not be possible, thought the former professor, to goad an opponent into making a mistake when said opponent defined the term. A sentiment undermined, unfortunately, by the wand on the ground, just out of easy reach. "(What is it that you want, Weasley?)"

"(A bacon sarnie and Hermione, if you're askin',)" replied Ron carelessly with an insouciant shrug of his shoulders and nary a twitch of the wand's point away from Snape's chest. "(Don't have to be in that order. What do you want?)"

There was a question that Snape had long ago given up, since what he truly wanted was lost. "(Within the realm of the possible, the sandwich, I suppose. Or three fingers of O'Bierne's firewhiskey,)" he replied. With a sudden epiphany, Snape realized now why wizards used to live alone in remote towers. "(I meant and, not or.)"

A decidedly awkward silence ensued. Not that Snape minded, inasmuch as he had not yet recovered his wand. A competent opponent would have incapacitated him by now, or used the advantage to withdraw. The idea came to the Death Eater that perhaps Weasley had not expected to succeed, so therefore had not planned his next move. This interlude could take some time; Polyjuice brewed faster than thoughts came to Weasley. Perhaps a hint? "(Miss Granger is very likely in that tent.)"

"(The one your mates were tossing curses at, yeah, I know,)" said Ron sharply. "(What does the Dark Turd look like now?)"

Snape huffed at the pejorative, but mostly to cover the surprise at the cogent question. And, in fact, when it was asked. It was, to Snape, the sort of question that was put to an enemy once he regained consciousness. And just before the unfortunate soul was killed, if it was the Dark Lord doing the asking. Snape turned to look back at the woods, then addresses his former student, an action which also put himself a full half step closer to his wand. "(His form, unless he wills it otherwise, is that of a child, a student - perhaps a third year. Less thin than weedy now; light hair, dark eyes,)" described the potion master. "(Now if you don't mind...)"

"(Oh, right, off you go then,)" grunted Ron as he swung his wand like a scythe, an action which sent the fallen wand spinning away into the dark field. "(You can thank Harry later.)"

v - v - v - v - v

Gabrielle left the tent with Von Schnittwinkel in the lead and Healer Leistenverletzunger following close behind. Or was that in pursuit? The old lecher was grumbling to himself, probably about the refused examination. She would have been happier with both wizards in front of her, or, in case Tibault was the kind to sneak up from behind, Von Schnittwinkel in the rear. Gabrielle could see, however, that he was way too determined to protect her to actually think.

That, a happier thought noted, even as they headed back into danger, was clearly the result of her burgeoning Veela allure. Once Gabrielle and the two wizards had untangled after her sudden, violent arrival, Herr Von Schnittwinkel had pointed out his recovery. Very sweetly, in a grandpere sort of way, which was also the way Gabrielle bestowed her promised kiss - a quick peck on his cheek with an equally brief embrace. The act left him beaming, and more than ready to help when she explained her peril.

Healer Leistenverletzunger, on the other end of the wand, was not interested in helping her. At least his stupid house-elf claimed so. Gabrielle was very surprised that the healer, or his house-elf, was not more concerned about Stanislaw's injuries, though she was not at all surprised over his concern as to whether or not she had bruised her bottom. Not every incident required the patient to undress!

In the end, Gabrielle's best smile and her Veela heritage had carried the day. With, perhaps, a little help from the way Herr Von Schnittwinkel had held his wand and blustered. Gabrielle remembered her vision from when she had held that black wand. Granecole would not be a problem anymore! She did have to promise a kiss for each wizard though; two for Leistenverletzunger if Stanislaw did not die. Gabrielle tried not to think that Maman or Fleur would have gotten what they had wanted for just a hint of a future smile. This was somewhat of an emergency.

v - v - v - v - v

When one considers a toad, the characterization of predator does not come easily to mind. Yet that is what a toad is - a carnivore. Or, rather, an insectivore. Its predatory skills rely more on happenstance than pursuit, stealth, or, frankly, intelligence. Toads swallow their prey whole, but they do have teeth. So the spectacle of a rat beset with toads, clinging to tail, legs, and ears, was certainly unlikely but not implausible.

A rat, of course, will eat just about anything. The rodents have sharp claws as well. In this instance, these claws were busy trying to dislodge a very odd toad from the handle of a very important item. Since the rat, with its silver paw, was also very odd, it all made quite a sight.

The rat, however, had one more advantage, and it decided to use that advantage because, well, toads do have teeth. The rodent stood up on it hinds legs, then stood up more and more as it transformed back into the wizard it had always been. The toads did not keep pace, being ordinary toads, so their teeth, not particularly numerous or vicious anyway, effectively shrank while what they were sunk into either disappeared or expanded beyond their meager jaw capacity.

Free of the irritating amphibians, the wizard simply grabbed the tenacious, translucent toad in his silver hand and crushed the pest into a sticky ball. The cup was his, and with it he would regain the Dark Lord's favor. Even as he savored the thought, though, the engraved, golden goblet flew from his grasp, torn from him magically.

"(I knew it was you, you thin miserable streak of shite,)" growled a tall redhead. "(Those bloody Wildfires aren't worth a sickle, let alone a galleon.)"

v - v - v - v - v

Herr Sammlermacher was not dead, yet. Gabrielle was certain; it was the way he moaned. George was not dead either, at least his trampled body was not immediately visible, and neither was Soleil. The colt appeared to be wedged by stone pillars sprouting from the cultivated field between his hind legs with a Y-shaped one that branched to each side of his front flanks. Gabrielle could see that the Abraxan could not kick the conjured stone behind him, and could not move forward without catching his wings. It had to be horrible for him, so it was extremely suspicious that the colt just sort of drooped quietly. What had been done to him?

Tibault was not in sight, so Gabrielle hurried ahead of her aging personal guard. Which was when she discovered an equally droopy George, sagging against the far side of the stone impediment. Both Soleil and George raised their heads to greet her; Gabrielle lowered hers to stare at the empty bottles at their hooves. Feet. Feet and hooves.

"(Cheers, luv! Oy, Sunshine! Look who'sh 'ere!) shouted George. He pulled Gabrielle into a clumsy embrace that was more headlock than hug. "(Hullo!)" He dragged her around to face Soleil; the bottles skittered away as she stumbled through them.

"(George, oh mon Dieu, what have you done?)" demanded Gabrielle, her voice muffled by his side. She struggled against his arm.

"(Jes', jes', uh, it's that muggle thing - sticking? gluing? Yeah, gluing with me new mate,)" explained George. "('Ere, watch this.)" He pulled the cork from a new bottle, drank several swallows, and then put the bottle up toward Soleil's muzzle. The colt's thick lips held the neck of the bottle, then he raised his head, quickly draining the contents. George grinned proudly at the trick.

Gabrielle, now freed, was appalled. Drinking directly from a bottle was very rude - Maman was very definite about that. Even Papa was scolded if he forgot. Also, how many bottles had George given Soleil? The last thing she needed was for the colt to be ill! And how had George found the hidden supplies?

Obviously, a triumphant thought deduced with a version of logic peculiar to magic folk, George had been secretly watching her on her endless chores because he was hopelessly in love with her. Apparently not so hopelessly that he would - do - the chores for her, noted a thought that was more like Fleur. Gabrielle decided to ask him directly, because he would be caught off-guard and would have to admit his feelings.

"(Eh, George - )" started Gabrielle as her beloved twisted the cork from another bottle of amber liquid. "('Ow many 'ave you given him? Stop zis! He will be sick!)"

George looked at her and grinned. "(Five for me and one for him! No - one for him and five for me. It makesh'is coat gloshy.)"

"(I, eh, do not zink zat is true. Brushing makes his coat glossy.)" informed Gabrielle. She should know, and there was a lot of coat to brush on an Abraxan. "(He can have only one in a day.)"

"(You can see that'ish not the case,)" said George, pointing unsteadily at the scattered bottles. "(I'll prolly die soon. I've pecklid - pickled myself.)" He took his swallows before passing the bottle up to Soleil.

"(Eh, what? Also, how did you find zee whiskey?)"

"(Ha! It was, uh - tha' girl with the eyebrows, you know, worksh onna Gleasson appor - appat - apparate - thing...)"

"(Abby? You mean Abby?)" asked Gabrielle.

"(Could be. Somethin' like that. She showed it to me. Showed me a few other things, heh. A real goer, if you know what I mean.)"

Gabrielle did not, but did not like the sound of that either. How did Abby know - Gabrielle's thought stopped as realization dawned. Was Abby the one who had been sneaking Soleil's supplies all along? Was that why Abby had wanted to be friends with her? And now she was showing George, eh, other things as well? Gabrielle was becoming annoyed with this whole situation. And now a new concern worried her. "(George, what is my name?)"

George looked at her with eyes that did not quite focus. "(Ish Gabbyerelle,)" he slurred. "(You're a strange bird, what with forgettin' your own name.)"

"(Eh, what? No, I did not forget. I was only, eh, only, eh -)" Testing. Checking. Pathetically insecure. Gabrielle decided not to finish. "(Eh, I am also a, eh, goer?)"

"(Give ush a kiss and we'll see)" said George with a lopsided grin. He belched, then patted his cheek.

Gabrielle was startled by his bold request, more than a bit put off by his lack of manners, and finally disappointed. On the cheek? What was so special about that? She stepped close to him, though, with the hope that he would turn his head at the last moment to steal a real kiss. It was what she would do.

It was not what George did. He did the unexpected, which was to scoop her up after the chaste peck and lift her suddenly up to Soleil. The colt's lethal breath and sticky tongue forced the thought of just where George's hands were from her mind. Soleil got in two face-washing swipes before her hands found his halter for control.

"(Release her at once, scarlet fiend!)" demanded Von Schnittwinkel.

"(No harm done, no harm done,)" assured George. "(No reashon to point that wand at me Y-front.)"

Gabrielle was not so certain about no harm being done. She was indelicately spitting, trying to remove Abraxan from her lips. It was probably not really poisonous. Anyway, she did not want to end up in Healer Lecherous's clutches.

"(My dear Melusina, is this the one? For you, I shall utterly destroy him.)"

"(Oy! There'sh no need for that! 'Ere, have a ship of - Huh, ish empty.)"

"(Eh, what? Aah!)" Gabrielle jumped forward, then spun furiously to see exactly who had been pinching her bottom. There was no one but Soleil there, and while he might wanted to nip her he was still restrained by the conjured rock. It had felt like the Compunctio spell she knew. Harry Potter had an invisibility cloak, but he was Ginny's boyfriend. Logically, Gabrielle quickly concluded, Fred had to be back.

"(What? What is it, my queen?)" asked Von Schnittwinkel anxiously. Gabrielle squeaked and flinched twice more.

"(What indeed,)" added George. If he thought, Gabrielle fumed after another rude pinch, that he was hiding his glee then he was more, eh, pickled than he knew. It was not Fred; George had placed a Goose-Flesh prank on her. Gabrielle reached for her handbag, which held the counter. And everything else.

"(Oof - don' look that way,)" warned George. "(Ish horrible!)" He covered his eyes with his hands.

Of course Gabrielle, who was once more ruefully regretting the unorganised mess that was the inside of handbag, looked up. Then away, very, very quickly. Healer Leistenverletzunger had closed up Stanislaw's wounds, wrapping him tightly with strips sliced from the curse-breaker's hip-waders, and was leading the wounded man toward them. Stanislaw did not wear anything under his hip-waders, something that was horribly, wobbly obvious now that their remains were around his ankles.

Oh mon Dieu, thought Gabrielle suddenly as the lunatics closed in. The answer to the ages-long question about the low fertility rate for wizards was now clearly obvious.1 Who would want to marry a wizard and risk producing more wizards? It was time to free Soleil. Right after she found the sprayer of Goose-Gone to end George's prank. Who was supposed to be, an abashed thought reminded, with some work, eh, quite a lot of work, her husband. Gabrielle set her handbag on the ground closer to the trapped Abraxan and stepped off the run-up she would need. She bounded forward, stuck out her wand dramatically, and said, "_Accio_ -"

"( - What - are you lookin' for,)" interrupted a smirking George. The accompanying pinch ruined the spell and made Gabrielle hop forward like a startled hare. Like a very annoyed, startled hare. She managed to not make a ridiculous squeal this time, but a new tactic was needed. She turned to level a Look at George, just in case that worked, but found the odious house-elf in front of her.

"Pardon Blackig, mademoiselle. Healer Leistenverletzunger has saved Herr Sammlermacher's life and wants... his reward. He will put Herr Sammlermacher's other kidney back in later," explained the house-elf. His eyes shifted left then right, and his voice dropped to a whisper. "Blackig is thinking mademoiselle should give her reward here, and not in Healer Leistenverletzunger's tent. Blackig is thinking mademoiselle should not be making these promises at her age."

"Eh, what?" said Gabrielle, forgetting for a moment, because the creature had poked himself in the eye, before remembering. No pinch this time - French was safe! "It is not like that - " There was new shouting.

"(Do you know, that sounds like Potter,)" said George.

v - v - v - v - v

"(R-R-Ron!)" blurted Wormtail. "(Ah! I - I was just leaving, but, you see, I forgot a few of my - my things, so -)"

"(Shut it, will you? I know what - Oy!)"

"This artifact is, yes, the property of the Beauxbatons Academy of Magic," declared Professor Festeller, to no one's edification. He was already retreating back behind the wooden stall when an angry red bolt of magical energy nearly struck him. The attack was barely turned aside at the last moment, the resulting explosion tossing the professor into the air. The cup flew from his grasp.

"(Bloody hell!)" gasped Ron. He turned toward the source of the spell, already casting a shield spell. The impact of the curse aimed at him forced to stumble back. The caster of the spell was a youth, who was now summoning the golden prize to himself. "(You tetchy little midget!)"

The prized cup was nearly in the youth's hand when a thick, swirling stream of parchment intercepted and engulfed it. The flurry of official documents fluttered bureaucratically back toward Professor Festeller's outstretched hand before suddenly erupting into a brief but fierce ball of flame.

"(My lord! I will get it,)" insisted Wormtail. He hurried forward.

"(_Impedimenta__!_)" snapped Ron. The spell sent the would-be rat end over end. "(You can go an' - Wait, lord...?)" The color drained from his face.

"(Lord Voldemort to my followers, and to those who will fall before me,)" said the Dark Lord menacingly but in a pitch that did not match. It would be another year or two before the voice used would lower.

"Monsieur Granecole, you will stop, yes, this nonsense," inserted Professor Festeller, though he was clearly more interested in scanning the ground.

"(You're Tom Riddle, to those who know better. _Expelliarmus__!_)"

v - v - v - v - v

The Dark Lord turned and blocked the spell easily, but did not return a spell. The number of enemies was unknown, and there felt as if there was an Anti-Disapparition jinx in place to prevent escape. This was a trap; if he tangled up with Potter now he would be vulnerable, though this time the brother wands were not an issue. The Dark Lord raised the weaker wand he wielded. When he gained his true wand, the Elder Wand, and did not have to suppress the other, then his hand would not be stayed. "(That name has no power.)" Potter, noticed the Dark Lord, watched him warily, closely. Too closely. The Dark Lord shifted his wand slightly, and thought, "_Legilimens__._"

The Dark Lord rocked back a step. The images were unexpected, the mind both unknown and yet strangely familiar. He had seen a young Potter, grimy, covered in blood, and standing exhausted over a ruined diary. The diary the Dark Lord recognized as the one he himself had kept as a student, and that the idiot Malfoy had failed to protect. The feelings of utter terror that accompanied the scene were the goal, but there was also a searing flame of emotion too strong to stand.

There was another way, however. The Dark Lord reached out for the Dark Mark that Pettigrew carried.

v - v - v - v - v

Harry Potter kicked himself mentally. The spell should have come first and it should have been non-verbal. It had been stupid to think saying Voldemort's real name would rattle Riddle. Worse, he had no snappy comeback to Voldemort's words. He felt like a complete prat. Ginny would have given him an elbow in the side, or even a bat-bogey hex, for that, which, Harry knew, was not the kind of thoughts to be having in the middle of a duel. Mad-Eye had been very shouty about that. The peculiar memory from the Chamber of Secrets had distracted him. The scene had not been the way he normally recalled it; more like a memory in a pensieve.

On the other hand, this was not much of a duel. For which, Harry admitted, he should be thankful. Trying to curse a third-year just did not seem right, even if the third year was actually Voldemort. The professor seemed to know him - one of his students? Perhaps that was why Festeller seemed completely oblivious of the situation, or was that somehow the Cup's doing? Where had that gotten to anyway?

Focus, Harry reminded himself. It was not as if he could look around. The boy, that is, Voldemort, had flinched back, like something had surprised him. Not that he nor Ron had done a bloody thing. What could it have been? Voldemort, Harry thought, did not like surprises. He recalled the look on the snake-face when their wands had connected. If, Harry reasoned, he could do something really surprising, then Voldemort might pull back. Even five minutes would be enough with Hermione's portkeys. He wracked his brain for a spell, spurred by the realization the the youth in front of him was just barely moving his lips.

The strain was useless though. Harry knew fewer spells than Hermione, possibly even fewer than Ron, who had at least finished Hogwarts. There was nothing -

Wait, thought Harry suddenly. It was George's words that came to mind. He may not know many spells, but if Voldemort did, then so, perversely, did he. Harry recalled the fight in the atrium of the Ministry, tried to imagine the feel of it, and thought to himself, "_Expelliarmus__._"

v - v - v - v - v

Hermione crouched slightly under the invisibility cloak. Her knuckles were in her mouth to prevent any inadvertent sounds, such as the unneeded warning she had wanted to give Ron, and the slight, very slight, correction on his shield spell that he required. Hufflepuff's Cup sat next to her, as far from her as it was possible to be and still be under the cloak, with a good Its-Not-Here charm on it. She dearly wished that Professor Festeller would quit looking for it, and either leave or pay closer attention to the stand-off happening right in front of him. Perhaps the professor was dismissing it all as some sort of inter-school squabble, but surely he did not mistake Wormtail for a student? Had he really not noticed the curse she had blocked?

His actions, thought Hermione, were somewhat understandable if Festeller really did not understand the danger. An item belonging to one of the founders of Hogwarts was incredibly important historically, and probably priceless. Except, Merlin knew the signs of danger were so clear. Four wizards facing off with wands drawn, and three of them had already cast spells. The rank of Beauxbatons as a school of magic dropped further in Hermione's estimation. Durmstrang was perhaps too austere, but Beauxbatons was -

That, thought Hermione, her previous thought derailed, could not possibly be Slytherin's Shield, could it? When had Harry ever learned a spell like that? It was mentioned in - Oh! He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named did not like that! Hermione chewed her knuckles and waited for the worst.

The Dark Lord's youthful face flushed red. "(You dare!? In front of the last scion of Salazar Slytherin, you dare to use that spell?)"

"(Yeah, I do,)" said Harry Potter, with a small grin. He had a talent for winding up bullies, but Hermione wondered if this was wise. "(I've probably got more of Salazar's blood in me than you do as - both - of my parents were wizards.)"

"(And they died by my hand, on their knees begging.)"

"We both know that is not true," hissed Harry in Parsletongue. Hermione could not even begin to fathom what Harry had said, but it was more than enough. She renewed the Anti-Disapparition jinx.

v - v - v - v - v

Harry saw the enraged Voldemort launch the spell, the initial movement like the twitch of a snitch. He met the spell with a lightning Levicorpus spell of his own, which did, as George had suggested, block the attack. The two wands did not connect, of course. While the results were good, Harry guessed that an important point of the technique had been left unmentioned. The more powerful curse from Voldemort's wand had gotten a lot closer to him than his spell had gotten to Voldemort. The tall, kite-shaped shield on his arm came in handy for the resulting eruption. A second spell from Harry's wand was easily turned aside by Riddle, who had not been distracted at all by the flash of magical energy.

Ron, unfortunately, had been. Wormtail now had the redhead by the neck, his wand's tip poked under his captive's chin.

"(Weasley,)" complained Harry.

"('S not my fault,)" wheezed Ron through the chokehold. "(Thought he'd have run off.)"

"(Now then, Potter. We both have something -)"

"That is enough, Monsieur Granecole, yes!" declared Professor Festeller, who had wandered up unnoticed from behind the youth, slapping the wand from the third year's hand and pocketing it himself. "You will return the artifact, yes, immediately. I remind you, yes, that you are on probation."

There should have been more of a reaction than jaws slacking, Hermione would think later. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, the blurry Dark Lord, had just been disarmed by a buffoon of a puffy, middle-aged wizard with eternally red cheeks. Harry should have incapacitated Voldemort; Wormtail should have cut the professor down. Ron should have elbowed himself free. Instead, everyone just stood still, as if what had just happened could not be real.

v - v - v - v - v

Every creature allowed on equal terms with wizards has conscious thought. This is often accompanied by subconscious thought, which provides for a certain amount of flexibility, such as the ability to change one's mind. Usually these thoughts stay, as their name suggests, below the conscious one. This would be where focus and certainty are born. For some, these competing voices are closer to the surface. That could mean the indecisiveness and inattention of the dullard, or the sparks of inspiration and insight of the genius. It all comes down to how useful these alternate thoughts were.

For Gabrielle, who contended with as many as three of these muses in her head at times, well, judgement is reserved. In the current crisis, for example, the foremost thought was that neither George nor Soleil should ever, ever have that much firewhiskey again. A very reasonable thought, normally, but less so if one is dangling from the muzzle of an over-excited Abraxan mid-rampage. This was Montaigne's fault - he had set a bad example, noted an even less useful thought, and there should be words when she got back, except that it was Montaigne. Gabrielle swung wildly as Soleil galloped away. George's 'new mate' had jumped forward as soon as the blocking pillar holding him in place was dispelled, planting a rear hoof into her almost fiancé. Gabrielle was reasonably certain that George was still alive, though, because there were many colorful English idioms drifting up from the large hole. The colt had then snatched up Gabrielle by her collar, and bolted.

Soleil was, at least, headed in the right direction. Gabrielle had intended to take him back to the stall because, well, he could not just be on the loose, and because the stall was solidly built. It would also then be full of Abraxan. There was no way Granecole would be able to get her there. The only troublesome part was that her personal protector was once again left far behind. Gabrielle had to wonder if Herr Von Schnittwinkel should be trying to run anyway. He was only mostly over the chest wound from the unicorn.

Actually, noted a second thought sadly, there was another problem. Muggle clothing bought on the cheap, even in Paris, was more stylish than sturdy. Stylish in Gabrielle's opinion that is; disaster to Maman. The blouse was tearing. Gabrielle still had her rustic wand in her hand, and wondered if she could manage a hasty, in-situ bit of repair.

That turned out to be a very bad decision, and was not a very good beginning in the dullard versus genius debate. Raising her arm over her head to try and reinforce the collar halved the number of appendages holding Gabrielle in the blouse in the first place. One arm was not enough, and on a particularly wild gyration, as Soleil veered suddenly, Gabrielle slipped from the garment and tumbled through the air. Her wand was wrenched from her hand as the sleeve was pulled free. Which was how Gabrielle ended up on the ground, before her probable mortal enemy, with nothing covering her meager charms but the sheer black bodysuit, her lost wand at his feet.

This did not, at first, move the stalled conflict at all. A wild-eyed Abraxan thundering past does much to divert attention, far more than a mostly dressed, petite blond sprawled in the dirt does to garner it.

"Ah, Mademoiselle Delacour, yes. You are all right?" asked Professor Festeller.

Gabrielle looked up, but not at the professor. It was Tibault Granecole that she was worried about. He was looking straight at her, but just a little lower than her face. Gabrielle quickly crossed her arms over her chest. "Pig!" A better, but sadly secondary, thought urged her to grab the wand.

v - v - v - v - v

Lord Voldemort struggled for control; control of his rage, control of this debacle, and for control of the other. Yes, the Dark Lord thought, especially the other. The strategy of moving from host to host was proving problematic. Even the nearly ideal situation now might be his undoing. The unbounded fear of the rushing beast, the complete animosity toward the girl - these were proving impossible to subdue. They might, however, be possible to guide. He could use these emotions to unleash the magical potential in the same way that the return of the child-witch had unleashed a flood of upsetting humours. The Dark Lord snatched up the wand at his feet. Any wand would do at this moment, but he was surprised to feel the warmth and potential from it. Well, well - the wand chooses the wizard. The Dark Lord quickly stepped around to the side of the fool of a wizard who had disarmed him, putting the buffoon between himself and Potter. "_Percutio_," said Lord Voldemort casually. The strange wand responded strongly, and a hole larger than a snitch opened up through Festeller's chest, and his heart. The professor gasped and slumped to the ground, looking rather confused. The Dark Lord turned to the girl, who was scuttling away backwards along the ground, one arm across her chest. The air crackled around him.

v - v - v - v - v

Gabrielle slid along the ground backwards. It was not a very effective escape, but Gabrielle did not think it mattered because she was dead. Tibault had her wand - her wand! - and he had already hurt the professor with it. What would she say to Grandmere? She would say nothing, put in a second thought, as she would soon be dead. Why, demanded a third thought, was she not apparating now? It would be, all thoughts agreed, a very good time to apparate, even if it was back to Healer Listen-For-It-Hunger's lair. Gabrielle tried chanting her desire under her breath. Tibault turned to face her, then erupted in flaring green flames, which swirled around him likes snakes on a medusa's head. The conflagration grew and grew until Granecole was completely engulfed. Gabrielle looked away, thinking it was awful, but mostly she was thinking, "Apparate! Apparate! Apparate!"

Her efforts were, unsurprisingly, fruitless, and Gabrielle's current method of escape was no longer tenable. She could not back away any further; she had reached the edge of the wide hole in the middle of the camp. Gabrielle remembered that George was down there, and thought that he might catch her if she went over the edge. If, that is, he was not so pickled that he did not notice her. She turned her head to peer down into the pit, and concluded that the pickling was indeed complete. George had managed to animate one of the work tables, and was trying to ride it up the dig site's vertical walls. He did this by backing the poorly coordinated table up to the stairs carved into the far side, then having it charge forward, leap, and scramble up the sheer wall opposite that convenient exit. Gabrielle decided that, if she escaped Granecole, she would practice Maman's disapproving Look in a mirror to use on him. She had seen it often enough.

"(No! Don't move, Harry, and no one gets hurt.)"

Gabrielle gave up waving at George, who was now busily repairing a broken table leg. Harry had, for some reason, managed to turn his wand into an elaborate, jeweled sword. Ron was still held by that Ratworm wizard. Boys were useless. Except, unfortunately, for Tibault, who had not even been singed. He was exchanging spells with Herr Von Schnittwinkel. Gabrielle, having missed out on a proper break from schooling, felt that that was really very forward of a student, even rude, since Von Schnittwinkel reminded her of a professor himself. A certain, slighlty insane potions professor. However, since everyone was busy with something, Gabrielle decided that she should be doing something as well. Which was leaving. She got up and sprinted for the safety of the stall.

Sprint was the intention - Gabrielle still wore the iron overshoes, which made her wonder where Soleil had gotten to. He was not in the stall, although Ginny was. Her sometimes coven sister looked feverish and pale. Gabrielle wondered if Ginny would be more comfortable without her shirt. Certainly Gabrielle was sure that she would be more comfortable with Ginny's shirt. Then again, the redhead was laying on the floor of the stall, and probably in - Anyway, there was not anyone to see right now. That was likely Soleil's doing.

Gabrielle should have been wondering why she did not hear the Abraxan destroying the camp, or knocking over the poor farmer's other barn. If she had, she might have wondered why that was, and she would not have been so shocked to find the creature standing stock still, rigid, on the far side of the stall. His head was held low, and turned to the wooden structure he would normally kick. Gabrielle hurried to the colt, and spotted the problem immediately. Two small twig dolls were propped up in front of the massive equine.

"This again?" blurted Gabrielle. She grabbed the frightened colt's ear and pulled. "You hope to take Montaigne's place and act like this? What do you do with small annoying things? You bite them!"

A large red eye turned its focus to Gabrielle, so she quickly clarified her advice. "Unless, eh, they give you food. Also, eh, I am not, eh, annoying."

Soleil stamped a front hoof dangerously, so Gabrielle let go of his ear. Instead, she took hold of the leather lead and prepared for the unlikely task of dragging the colt away fron Nona's handiwork. The old witch had not really left after all; perhaps there would be a breakfast in the morning. Gabrielle decided that she would say something to Nona about Soleil. Try to say something - it was never clear if Nona ever understood her. And only after the meal, since while the old crone may not understand, it was certain she would not be pleased. But how could Gabrielle not say something, the way the Abraxan was jerking and twitching? He was reduced to a hapless, cowering shamble by the Albanian witch, and that -

That was not correct. The huge beast had instead been working up some much-needed nerve. Soleil lunged forward, the suddenness catching Gabrielle unaware and sending her stumbling. When Soleil pulled back, she could see half of one of the tied bundle of twigs sticking out his mouth, and a mad gleam in his eye. A second thought wondered if her suggestion had not been a serious tactical error; the potentially more useful thought noting the lead tangled with her legs got less attention.

v - v - v - v - v

Harry Potter, The-Boy-Who-Lived - not the Boy-Who-Could-Defeat-Voldemort-In-A-Duel. That, Harry thought, was the problem. The shield had been a good idea; it had blocked Riddle from his run at the hoops, at least for a little while. The Sword of Gryffindor look for his wand, though, just made look like a total berk. First, Riddle had not even noticed, and second, it was not as if he would actually risk whacking someone with the disguised wand. Was it even sharp?

The whole situation would have been more manageable if Fleur's little sister had not lost her wand. Or, Harry fumed, if Weasley had kept a better eye on Wormtail. If that old bloke had not shown up, well, things would have been far worse. Even now, though, Harry could see that the white-haired wizard was beginning to lose. The contest may have turned out differently if he had been a half century younger, or did not already have a chest wound.

Harry looked around. There had to be something he could do to distract Pettigrew. If the field was full of those vines Longbottom was always talking about, then maybe, Harry reasoned, he could provoke a patch just behind the pair. Everything just looked like, well, wheat, possibly. But if it could be transfigured, though, that might be enough of a chance.

Although, Harry had to admit, the loud, piercing shriek worked as well.

v - v - v - v - v

Soleil swept in low over the wizards' heads. They noticed him immediately; this was not a sight easily ignored. That was without the additional knowledge that the beast had just bested a long-time nemesis and was looking for a new challenger, and that the Abraxan's judgement was just a bit clouded by ten times the amount of firewhiskey he would have normally been allowed.

Even if the intimidating pass and rush of air could be overlooked, the arrival of Gabrielle could not. Particularly by the Dark Lord. Gabrielle dangled upside-down below the colt, caught by the leather lead and twisting in the airstream. Soleil swooped low; Gabrielle, of course, lower. Low enough for her head to smash into the upturned face of one Tibault Granecole. The impact was great enough to slacken the lead, and Gabrielle, untangled, continued past, cartwheeling across the ground.

She sat up, woozy, her hands clasping the back of her head where Gabrielle was sure there was a huge dent. She was seeing stars through a graying tunnel, and was a little dazed. The only thing that was clear was the bloody visage of the awful Granecole. Was that his blood, though, or her's? The defiler of Natuche raised the stolen wand, "_Avada__Kedavra__!_"

There was a flash of green light and Gabrielle heard a strange sound like something rushing toward her. She could not see what was happening directly, because mostly what she could see was the golden coat of Soleil as he dropped out of the sky in front of her.

Gabrielle shook her head to clear the fog, which hurt to do and did not help much. Something was wrong with Soleil. The Abraxan had not so much landed as collapsed. He should not have been flying at all, not after a meal like that. Gabrielle made to stand, because Soleil was her responsibility, which was when she noticed two things. The first was that she had tumbled to a stop on top of Herr Von Schnittwinkel. The second was that Herr Von Schnittwinkel's hands were where they should definitely not be. It could be that he was just covering what the sheer bodysuit was revealing to protect her modesty, but Gabrielle very much doubted that. Herr Von Slime was obviously not in as bad shape as he looked.

"(Ron! Your wand!)"

The shout had been Hermione's. Gabrielle had not noticed her arriving before, and was more preoccupied by the angry Tibault standing on top of Soleil. And the hands. The temerity of Granecole was more than she could stand. "Get off him! Get of him right now! Eh, there is another unicorn."

The youth responded with a snarl, and a spell that left an ugly purple trail in the air. Gabrielle gasped as it struck her chest. It had not hurt; there was no effect at all except for causing Von Slimy's cupped, slightly cupped, hands to fall away and his body to jerk. Gabrielle slid off of her perverted protector.

"(Weasley,)" complained Harry again. "(What the bloody hell was that? What are those things coming off your shoulders for?)"

"(Blimey, it wasn't like it was thrown to me,)" replied Ron. "(Merlin, she throws like a girl.)"

"(I - am - a girl, Ron,)" pouted Hermione. "(You could have tried a little.)"

Gabrielle moved away from Herr Von Schnittwinkel. He, eh, did not look... Alive, supplied a panicking thought. And neither did Soleil. But, thought Gabrielle hopefully, Abraxan's were resistant to magic.

"(S-stay where you are! The same trick won't work twice,)" warned Wormtail. He held Ron's wand above his head, his own was still jabbed into the soft flesh under his captive's chin.

"(Could you stop poncing around with that damned sword and do somethin'?)" suggested Ron.

Gabrielle started toward the motionless Soleil. She was more in a fog than ever, and failed to notice the effect her approach had on Granecole. He was agitated to the point of spasms, as two wills battled for control.

"(This is the favor that my lord has shown,)" announced Wormtail. Proudly? Ruefully? Gabrielle knelt at Soleil's head. She tried patting the colt's nose, ignoring the obvious futility, because if it was true, then, then -

The Dark Lord turned suddenly. "(Pettigrew, no!)" shouted the throat of Tibault, still standing on the unmoving chest of the Abraxan. He jabbed the slightly twisted wand, with a hair from Gabrielle's grandmother at its core, at the wizard holding Ron. The rat-wizard was blasted backwards, but not before there was a flash like lightning from his silver arm.

Gabrielle stood up and screamed her fury, "I was never sorry about it! Never!" Other screams joined hers.

"(She's lost it, Harry. Do something.)"

"(Bloody hell, he's going all runny!)"

"(Don't touch him, Ron.)"

"(Why d'you think I'd touch him?)"

Gabrielle bent down and picked up a rock. Not much of a rock, actually, more of a stone, in fact, but she threw it at Granecole anyway. Why did he not get off of Soleil?

It was not easy to run with a large shield unless one has practiced. It was not acceptable for Lord Voldemort, who was the magic, to be hit by a stone thrown by a child. It was confirmation of what the other had suspected all along - the girl had tried to kill him. The glint from her jewelry dazzled in the waning light, a mocking reminder of the flash of the unicorn's horn.

"(_Accio_, erm, Gabrielle! _Accio__!_)" Harry struck a pose with the sword. Gabrielle, unaffected, found another stone. This one had a sharp, broken edge. Conflicting wills in the youth's mind found a common goal. Tibault Granecole raised the found wand and called forth the killing curse.

1 Wizards are obviously superior, so it stands to reason that there should be more of them. Natural order of things. So why are there not more wizards? Of course, magic itself can be too alluring, and some never seem to find a witch with the right disposition. And again, having a large family risked producing a squib, which would tarnish the good name. Finally, of course, resorting to muggles is just not done. It was a true wizard's quandary.

No witch thinks like that.


End file.
